


Scar Mark

by Kayzo



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Drugs, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-07-16 02:51:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 50,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7249117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kayzo/pseuds/Kayzo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eggsy could do without it really, the whole soulmate-destined-to-be-together-and-love-each-other-very-much thing. He's lived enough of a life of violence to know whoever's on the other end of this thing he's better off without--or they're better off without him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Skid

At the exact moment of Harry’s 15th birthday, he can feel it bloom across his skin. After school, when he’s standing in front of the mirror and admiring it, he feels absurdly proud. Like he hadn’t been up last night unable to sleep for worry that he wouldn’t get one. In the face of that the (now it seems so) absurd worry that he wouldn’t have a soulmate, the prospect of finding them looks terribly easy.

* * *

Eggsy had kind of forgotten in all honesty. So when the hot flare of _something_ blasts across his hip, it makes him falter enough that Rottie catches him right in the stomach. He stumble inelegantly on the walk, right into Poodle’s punch to the face. Eggsy turns into his fall, scrambling up and away, not looking to continue the row when his ears are ringing and the persistent burn on his hip is taking too much of his attention.

When he gets to the public toilet in the park, he lifts up his shirt and shoves down his pants enough to expose his left hip. Eggy hisses at the look of it. Prods it gently and is thankful that there’s no flare of pain. Because it looks like there should be. A starburst of white with a trailing edge, raised like a scar and there’d be nothing to say otherwise except he didn’t have it yesterday and he hasn’t ever been shot. Because this? This is definitely a gunshot wound, and it’s not his. That leaves only one option.

“Shit.”

* * *

Harry hasn’t actually been worried about it, finding his soulmate. He had his mark and the general good advice of the day is to live your life and you and they will cross paths. A fated meeting.

So every new person Harry meets is a potential, even people he’d met before were given their fair shot, now that he has his mark. But it isn’t them. Isn’t any of them. He tries to keep his chin up. Some people meet their matches much later in life, and as Harry’s still in his teenage years, his parents smile slyly and laugh at his impatience.

“No matter when you meet your soulmate, Darling,” his mother says, “tomorrow or twenty years from now, that’s when it’s fated, and you will not be poorer for it.”

He makes the correct noises, tries to bury his obvious upset. But ever since Harry got it, ever since that beautiful thing appeared on his chest, he’s been waiting with little patience.

It’s just. They’re perfect. Whoever they are, whoever this mark belongs to, they’re actually _perfect_. Everyone must say that about their destined, but Harry means it. Really and truly.

He knows he’ll find them. Knows they’ll coming into his life or he into theirs and then he’ll show them how much they’re loved. Until then he’ll trace the mark with his fingers every night and hope his other knows that Harry’s waiting for them.

* * *

Eggsy crashes at Jamal’s for a while after that. The flat isn’t really an option right now. Eggsy’d been had by some druggie with a gun, demanding product Eggsy swore up and down he didn’t have until the first warning shot—that was a warning only for how twitchy the dudes hands were.

Eggsy gave it to him then, some of Dean’s ‘inventory’ that he was supposed to bring to an exchange fifteen minutes before the whole fucking mess. He wasn’t about to lose his life for some shit drugs. But he wasn’t stupid either. Eggsy kept as much as he could dare to in the face of the shaky man with the shaking gun that still had a wisp of smoke coming from the end. If he lost some, he’d only get beat. If he lost it all…well, gunshot might be preferable.  

Rottie and Poodle found him on the way back to the flat. They didn’t even wait to get the story before they started wailing on him. Not that he expected to sit for a cuppa, but still. When they got his pack and the drugs that he was able to keep, Rottie said that Eggsy was keepin it for himself. And so they started in on him again, both knowing full well that Eggsy doesn’t even do drugs.

And then the mark happened. His soul mark.

Looking at it now in Jamal’s mirror, he sees he was right from that first impression in the dirty broken glass of the public toilet. It spider webs a few centimeters in all directions, one bit trailing father still on the outer side, and at the center is the raised pucker of silvery skin. He doesn’t really like to touch it, brain still telling him with conviction that it’s going to hurt. At this point his bruises from Rottie and Poodle are all but gone. This though, this is going to stay.

“Fuckin’ hell, mate,” Eggsy pulls down his shirt, but from the wide-eyed look on Jamal’s face, it’s obvious he saw it, “that bastard pull a gun on you, Eggsy? I shoulda known when you said you was staying here for such a stint without calling your mum or nothing.”

Eggsy places his hand lightly against his shirt over the soul mark—the wound—and thinks for a moment that it does hurt.

“Mate, Dean doesn’t have the balls for it, ‘sides, where’d a wanker like him get a gun? No, some druggie man—American by the accent, caught me in an alley and—” Eggsy makes the finger motion. Gun going off. He can almost hear it again. Maybe that’s what happened. Maybe he did get shot. The druggie caught him in the hip and he’s been healing up at Jamal’s. He could almost believe it.

“God,” Jamal seems beside himself and Eggsy has the best mate ever, caring about him like that, “we gotta have my mum check it, yeah? She gets off shift at nine.”

“No, ‘s fine, all done with.”

“Eggsy, gunshot wounds don’t just heal like nothing!”

“Well, this one did, Mate.”

* * *

It’s when Harry nearing the end of university that he really starts to worry. He thought he’d found his other half a few times, thought he was done searching and hoping and waiting. But they were never it. No matter how hard Harry wanted it to be the person in front of him—even when he couldn’t believe in his heart that there would be another he’d love more—it never was.

The woman, the one Harry was willing to forsake marks for, to say hell to fate for and never leave her side, to recite all the greatest love stories that featured un marked or mismarked pairs that fought against the cruel hand of fate to find their true love to show his devotion, his resolve…she found her soulmate the week before he planned his declaration. For that Harry’s kind of lucky.  Saved him from making a right tit of himself, didn’t it.

To see her and her soulmate together though, even as it hurt like nothing else, he could say he’d never seen someone so happy, so alive with love.

* * *

He’s overstayed his welcome at Jamal’s. He’s got to go back to the flat sometime, yeah? Might as well be now. Eggsy breaths out and taps the medal hidden under his shirt, just to feel it. As he’s stepping out the door, ready to start the march back, the idea comes to him so quick he can’t believe he didn’t come up with it before. He needs to get back to the flat, check on his mum and resume the pitiful thing known as his life. But Dean’s not going to take excuses. His position as Michelle’s son only goes so far, and for how gone she’s been lately it really doesn’t count for much.

His word means nothing. But even Dean won’t ignore proof.

Eggsy goes back to the flat, walks right past Rottie and Doberman and through the door with such steadfast determination that it takes them both a moment to process who it is. Dean’s on the couch with a beer in his hands and there’s his mum, sitting beside him with the telly on, seemingly engrossed in daytime tv before he interrupted. She hadn’t tried to call him. He’d checked.

“Eggsy!” she’s halfway to standing when Dean puts his arm out, blocking her way with more presence than force. She looks at him, then at Eggsy before she sits. Her hands are shaking. He wonders if Dean’s been withholding her drugs because of him. He can feel Rottie and Doberman behind him now, looming.

“Show your face again, will you? After swiping my product and failing to uphold your end, eh, Boy?”

“I didn’t steal your drugs,” Eggsy spits, yanks his clothes aside to show it—the jagged edges of the mark that’s supposed to represent his very soul and how it ties with another—“I got fucking shot for your goddamn drugs.”

“Oh, baby…” his mum puts a hand to her mouth, eyes wet. She doesn’t get up.

Dean stands, comes over with his eyes narrowed and Eggsy can feel Rottie and Doberman coming closer too. (This better fucking work.) Dean prods it, hard. Eggsy doesn’t have to fake the hiss of pain as much as he’d like.

“How’re you still alive, Boy?”

Rottie comes around his left side and gives the wound a look, then he looks at Eggsy with something like impressed. Eggsy ignores him, feeling to exposed as it is. Let’s his shirt fall flat.

“Lucky.”

Dean laughs, “Not enough to not get shot.” He pulls out his wallet, “Go get me some smokes, boy.”

Eggsy grabs the cash. Mum stays sitting, looking at him but not seeing him. He turns abruptly. Doberman and Rottie startle as he walks between them with the same purpose he arrived.


	2. Needle

He has some great friends and he hasn’t let waiting for his soulmate to put his life on hold, but sometimes Harry thinks that maybe he should just drop everything and travel the world, looking for the soul that shines brightest because surely that is his other. Harry’s spent his life trying to live up to the mark on his chest, to be good enough for the soul behind it.

Somehow, not meeting them yet feels like a moral failing. Like his soulmate has deemed him unworthy. Preposterous, of course, and whenever he tells his best mate when they’re too many bottles in they laugh about it, laugh about all their insecurities as they watch everyone else around them find their soulmates.

Once, when _very_ drunk and under the influence of something that might be illegal, they made a pact. If they haven’t met their soulmates by the time they’re fifty, they’ll say fuck it to fate and settle down together with some dogs and too much good liquor.

Harry hopes it doesn’t come to that.

* * *

For a long while he doesn’t think about it, about his mark or what it means. He’s got enough shit to deal with that—his messed-up, twisted _soul_ —the mark isn’t exactly high priority. Schools going to shit, Dean’s pushing him to sell more drugs or start selling…other things and that’s not going to happen, okay? So whoever is connected to this scar is going to have to wait, because Eggsy’s a survivor and that’s what he’s going to fucking do.

He doesn’t have time to have a mental breakdown, doesn’t have the luxury. Can’t think too long about what it means, that he’s messed up so fucking bad that _this_ —something that’s not even in his fucking control—goes to shit. Because he’s got classes to barely get by and people to piss off and fists to avoid and—

He’s got too much life to live. It’s not a good life, but it has to be better than whatever is on the other side of this scar.

* * *

And then it happens, on his last day of class he’s approached by a man sharply dressed with a sharper mind and given the opportunity to do better, to _be_ better. Harry takes the chance and his soul mark warms.

* * *

“Eggsy, baby.” Michelle leaves her bedroom in a hushed whisper, careful not to wake Dean, but she’s smiling and Eggsy can’t remember the last time he’s seen it without her eyes being glassy. She gives him a hug.

“Mum.” He gives a half smile. He’s got a nasty bruise on his left side—not from Dean’s lot but from a parkour fall—but it doesn’t matter, not now.

“Happy birthday Baby,” she pats his cheek, gentle and sweet.

“Thanks Mum.” It hurts a little, good hurt. Chest too tight but not for bad things, not right now. She forgot his last few birthdays, was too deep, always too high or too wanting for it. But Dean’s taken her off the cut stuff, got her so she’s not so desperate for it, not always wired. Dean’s not a saint for it, he’s the one that got her hooked in the first place, and Eggsy won’t ever thank him for anything, but he’s glad to have his mum back, even just a little.

“This is a big one, yeah?” She smiles and she looks young. Maybe that’s just because Eggsy’s taller than her now, enough for it to count, “you were born at 17:28.”

Eggsy blinks once and it’s like his mind is moving through water. Then he gets it. The too tight too good feelings gone in a rush and now everything just hurts. His stomach is lead and where her arm still sits on his side is starting to throb.

“Mum—” Eggsy chokes on it. Does he tell her? He turned 15 last year, got his soul mark last year, right when he was supposed to. She thinks this is the year. Thinks he’s 14. She missed a year of his life and she doesn’t even know it.

There’s a groan from the bedroom. They both turn like spooked animals.

“I should go.” Eggsy whispers (because all they do in this house is whisper or whimper or let out choked sobs), darting in his room for a quick second, grabbing the bag stashed under his bed, suspended in the springs, before heading out the door, quick kiss to his mother’s cheek that feels like burning.

Running out the door, Eggsy feels the thump of the medal against his chest steady like a heartbeat. He thinks for a moment that maybe he should—but no, it’s him who hurts and that’s no reason to call, even if all he wants is someone to talk to, someone to pick of the phone and be _there,_ someone to listen and understand.

Eggsy gets on the train, takes it to the other side of London. Counts the money in the bag on his way. He’s been saving up—for what, well, he hadn’t know what for until now. He finds a tattoo parlor that doesn’t look too sketchy.

The tattoo artist looks up from his magazine then away just as quick, “need parental signature.”

Eggsy puts the bag on the table. “I’m fifty fucking two.”

The artist—Zach reads the script twirling along his neck, and Eggsy doesn’t think he got a tattoo of his own name, but Zach will do—looks in the bag and raises an eyebrow. Eggsy sets his jaw. Zach shrugs.

“This won’t get you much. Ink isn’t cheap.”

“Don’t need much. Just something…” Eggsy trails off. He didn’t think on the ride, head full of static, didn’t come up with something. And now he’s standing here like a tit because his mum thinks today’s his 15th birthday and he’s gonna get his soul mark when he’s already got one and it’s a bloody fucking gunshot wound. She can’t know. Can’t know that the thing that defines him is violent and hurting and god—why can’t he just _think_ of something?

Zach goes soft at the edges, his ink seems to dance on his arms, watery.

“Most people go abstract.”

Eggsy’s jaw hurts from clenching it so hard. He nods.

* * *

Harry wonders sometimes, if he’s ruined his chances. Absentmindedly, he touches his mark. Enough to get yelled at about it by his mentor, calling it out as a distinct motion that will get him noticed and killed one day. They’re learning how to be chameleons, to leave behind themselves and take on a persona to further the needs of the world. And all Harry does is touch his mark.

Maybe if he touches it enough he won’t have lost his chance. Even as he trains to fight, trains to hurt, trains to kill, he can still be good enough. Maybe it’s all to protect his soulmate. Harry knows the company line, knows what he’s here to do is save the world, to make it safer for everyone to live in, but he thinks none of it would be worth it if he isn’t keeping his soulmate safe—whoever they are.

* * *

Normal people’s marks look like drawings or painting, watercolors on skin. His mum’s is an oak tree. The roots of it at her wrist, trunk up her arm and the leaves of it bursting at her elbow. Sometimes it seems to shimmer a little. His dad’s—Eggsy asked once, but all she did was choke on air and he hasn’t asked since.

Dean’s—Dean’s is like broken glass reflecting light. It’s on his shoulder. It looks much too pretty for the man himself. He has to wonder what happened to them, the supposed soulmate of a person like Dean.

Rottie’s got words. Eggsy’s only seen an ‘se’ poking out of his sleeve in thick news print. He doesn’t care to know what it says. Doberman—he’s got so many tattoos, Eggsy’s got no idea which is his mark and which is ink. He suspects it’s the burst of blue at his collar, but he’s not about to ask. Poodle doesn’t have one. Eggsy doesn’t know if that’s better or worse.

Normal people’ve got that shit or none of it. Eggsy’s got a damn scar.

Zach has him on his stomach, cleans a patch of skin along his upper spine. Says it makes it easier, having it where he doesn’t have to look at it every day. Zach thinks he hasn’t got a mark, that he had his birthday and didn’t get a thing and so he’s here to try and feel normal. He’s not altogether wrong.

The finished product—that Eggsy gave no input to—is beautiful. Three dots in a row starting between his shoulder blades. Then a line that ends abruptly in a splash of color like spilled paint, light red, blue, and yellow, overlaying to make their mates. It’s worth much more than what was in his bag.

Zach was right, he never wants to look at it again.

* * *

It’s not the first life Harry takes that does it. Nor the second or third. After each of those he’d had his breakdowns after the job was done; gotten too acquainted with the toilet and the idea of his own mortality.

It’s the twelfth—or maybe it’s the thirteenth. There would be something poetic about it being the thirteenth. Regardless it’s on this occasion that Harry kills a man, one who presumably has people who love him, maybe a soulmate waiting for him to return or maybe a soulmate out there somewhere waiting to meet the one that their mark links to, who could have friends or a family or a bloody dog at home. Someone who could be more like him that he cares to think.

Harry kills them and afterwards he doesn’t feel sick. The nausea that accompanies every fatality is gone, the guilt rising like a tidal wave, one that’s been ever present, lapping at the shores of his mind and waiting for high tide—it’s gone.

And so he’s left with the weight of a gun in his hand and blood on his soul with the sinking realization that he will never, _never_ be good for the person who is connected to his mark.

And then the dam breaks and Harry cries for all the wrong reasons.

* * *

He hides out after that, takes a while for tattoos to heal apparently, and he can’t go home if it’s still healing, can’t let his mom see the truth. So he spends nights at Jamal’s, some at Ryan’s, some in the park. He works on his parkour and his sticky fingers. It’s a nice break from drug running and doing whatever the hell else Dean tells him too.

But.

Eggsy knows it’s not going to be good when he gets back. Mum’s called him once, asking after him. She didn’t seem too wired, didn’t beg him to come back to the estates with that edge that meant her stash was at stake. Seems she just wanted to make sure he was alive. Fancy that.

When he finally heads back to the flat, things fall back into their old pattern so quick, without so much as a fuss, that Eggsy can almost believe he didn’t leave for a month. Makes him nervous—Dean’s never one to miss an opportunity.

Late that first night he’s back, after Dean’s passed out, his mum wants to see his mark, says something about him gallivanting off trying to look for his soulmate all the time he’s been away. Eggsy just shrugs his shirt off and shows her his back.

“Oh baby…” she drags a finger down the line of it, “it’s beautiful.”

The wound on his hip burns.

“Yeah.”

“Oh I knew it, Baby, knew you’d have a lovely one.” She’s silent for a long moment, hand resting on lines of ink, “Now don’t you ever settle, okay, Eggsy? You find your soulmate and you hold on with both hands and don’t let go because that—that only happens once.”

It’s the closest she ever gets to saying it, saying she regrets Dean, what he’s done to her, to them. They both know it’s too late now though. Regret doesn’t do much when you keep living the same mistake.

“Mum,” Eggsy doesn’t turn, “What was dad’s soulmark?”

The silence last so long Eggsy’d think he was alone, think he’d been left with this fake mark on his back and this ragged scar for a soul, but for the heat of her hand still on his back.

“It was beautiful,” Michelle’s voice is a whisper, “you know that snow globe you had when you were a kid? The one with the mountain and the little cabin? His mark was the snow covered mountains. It looked so soft, the snow.

“He…he used to call me his Summer, ‘cause of my tree, and I called him my Snow.

“We complemented each other, were opposite seasons, that why we worked so well, that’s what your dad thought. I thought he was full of it. But he—“

“Stop.” It comes out soft, watery and weak and Eggsy hates himself for it. She was getting too loud. Dean might hear.

Michelle remembers herself.

“Well. It’s lovely.” She pats him once on the back, a hesitant thing. “Get some rest, Love.” Then she leaves, heads back to the room with Dean and his fractured glass that cuts underfoot and stays embedded.

Eggsy doesn’t turn around.

They’re not much different, not really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are very much appreciated. would love to know your thoughts on the switching p.o.v. i'm tinkering with.


	3. Cut

Kay dying is the first time Harry really understands the world he’s chosen. He’s called in to the table and they raise their glasses, give some solemn words and drink. He asks how Kay died and is given a stare that makes him feel young in a way he hasn’t for years now.

“Kay hasn’t died yet.”

“Sir?” Harry can’t help his questioning, bordering incredulous tone, looking down at his empty glass that he raised for a dead man that’s apparently not yet dead.

“He’s been captured by the Soviets,” Arthur speaks as if noting the weather, “and as we are an organization that thrives and depends on our secrecy and has no political ties, help is not available for us to give.”

 “He’s been burned,” Harry can’t stop his surprise, can’t comprehend the ease at which Kay’s life had been forfeit.

“We play a global game, Galahad,” he’s told plainly, dismissed by absent movement. A game indeed. One that seemed not to notice the players behind the pieces.

* * *

Eggsy doesn’t talk about the tattoo much, would love to forget it’s there but for the fact that whenever he’s got it out of his mind the lines seem to burn on his back. Then there’s the fact that every bird and bloke he sleeps with mentions it. Whoever said their generation didn’t believe in love was on crack because everyone wants to meet their soulmate, everyone wants to think…could this be them? Could this be the person I’m meant to spend my life with?

So they mention it, drag their hands or mouths over it. Complement it. Admire the colors and the design of it, mention what it reminds them of or what they like about it. All this with the assumption that Eggsy cares. Ruined more than a few good fucks, afterglow cut short and Eggsy feeling like he wants to crawl out of his skin. They praise something with this implicit understanding that it’s _Eggsy_.

 No one mentions the bullet wound.

* * *

It’s been so long. Harry feels older than he is, and he’s already getting old. He still hasn’t found them, and that’s okay. Not everyone does find their other. Some die before their time (by his hand), some are born too early or too late, and some just never meet. Some don’t even have marks.

Harry’s made his peace with it. There’s nothing for it. Moping doesn’t help; it’d be a hell of a long time to mope. Besides—he touches the mark, fingers lightly tracing its lines and feel nothing but hollow—he wouldn’t be good for them. Isn’t even good for himself, most days.

* * *

He’s eighteen when he signs up for the royal guard.

If he hadn’t, he’d be dead. Mum still begged him to stay. He doesn’t think about that too much. He doesn’t think about a lot of things, most of the time.

Dean… he’d gotten higher up in the vague chain of command that was the drug trafficking of London’s estates. And with that, he’d gotten an itch. The itch to spread further, to find more customers, to stop scraping the bottom of the barrel. So he starts to expand. Pushing a street corner farther, a block more until he’s getting into the nicer parts of town.

Most of his crew couldn’t do it, had the look of the estates on them and got caught by the cops easy as anything. Eggsy and Spaniel could though. Got straight enough teeth, cleaned up well enough with a pair of slacks and a blazer that they shared between them, even though the pants were too long for Eggsy and the jacket too broad for Spaniel. Looked young and not totally dimwitted (well, Spaniel did as long as he kept to the script and didn’t talk much—Eggsy could hide his accent well enough, letting just enough rough through to attract the right kind of wrong rich kid). Good enough to not get picked up by the cops, but giving off enough of the not-from-around-here vibe to be interesting to the local prep school kids.

So Dean would give whoever was on ‘duty’ that day the stash and send ‘em out to sell their wares, with strict fucking orders to not come back without selling it all. And stricter orders that if the cops catch them—if they so much as breath wrong, if they even _think_ about giving Dean up—well there’d be hell to pay. What Dean failed to mention, at least to Eggsy, was that it was already another dealer’s grounds. And not the cheap shit Dean was into, but high end oxicontin and amphetamines. It was the kind of dealer that had muscle to spare. And not the shit kind Dean had in his crew.

The first time they catch Eggsy selling to one of their uniformed clientele, Eggsy gets off with a warming—in the form of a beat down. Eggsy’s had a lot of practice with Dean’s lot, but this is different. These guys know how to hurt. And they don’t know Eggsy, and their boss isn’t dating Eggsy’s mom and honestly, he doesn’t think Dean’s crew has been going easy on him, just that these guys are on a whole other level.

He loses a molar and comes back with an eye so swollen he can’t see out of it. He hadn’t sold all his wares. Dean kicks him in the ribs and kicks him out for the night to ‘teach him a lesson’ for ‘disrespecting him’ and tells him to make sure he looks presentable for tomorrow’s sales.

He doesn’t mention Spaniel, even though it’s the other bloke’s turn. Eggsy has to learn through the fucking telly that Spaniel was caught, that he might even be going to jail for it. The boy could keep his lips sealed.

Eggsy’s never grassed on anyone in his fucking life, but if anyone’d asked him that night, he probably would‘ve given Dean up in a heartbeat.

* * *

His proposal is good, he thinks, pleased as he puts forth the candidate even as the nagging knowledge that Kay could still very well be alive in a labor camp somewhere still bites at his consciousness. Harry feels pleased until he sees the rest of the candidates and realizes they are all the same. They all went to some ivy league, all have good names to rest on, all have records of service and sharp eyes that look at the world the same.

Harry’s candidate doesn’t make it and he doesn’t feel any loss at it. Not when the victorious proposal is almost a carbon copy.  

* * *

He thinks about the mark sometimes, especially on nights like this—when he’s staying in the park, half sleeping, half aware. When the sleep isn’t restful. His mind is tugged to it—this defining mark on his skin meant to signify destiny and love and fate and all that crap.

He’s never heard of anyone having a scar like he does. But then, if they have any smarts, they do the same thing he does and hide it, ignore it and hope it goes away. It can’t mean anything good.

Maybe his soulmate shoots him. Right on the hip and it’ll scar over just like it is now and Eggsy’ll know that his soulmate tried to kill him. Because even the person made for him isn’t having any of this shit show.

Or maybe Eggsy’s the one who does it. Gets a gun somehow and shoots his soulmate. That’ll be their defining moment—Eggsy’s attempted murder. Or successful one.

That’s the part that gets him the most. His perfect person—the one who not so much completes him but complements him, is supposed to make him _feel_ so fully that it hurts—he could hurt them. He could kill them, and the proof of it is on his skin.

* * *

The first time Harry gets a broken bone from his missions that leave him laid up (“a long time coming,” Merlin grumbles, giving him a potted plant to be fresh), is the first time he’s forced to think of it, for want of nothing better to do.

Harry thinks of the person behind his mark, thinks of how they would react, if they knew that he’d let a fellow knight, a comrade, be written off as dead because of the whims of state when there was certainly things he could do.

Would they be angry? Yell at him and curse him for falling into line so easily, burn bright with disappointment and fear at his calloused soul. Or would they be like Arthur; speak to the inevitability with a vague sense of annoyance as they went about their day?

He’d rather be yelled at, honestly.

* * *

Next day he’s back because he just doesn’t know what’s good for him. Gets the bag from Dean, feeling like shit and is sent off with a warm ‘don’t you dare come back with anything but cash’.

How could anyone sneak up on Eggsy when he’s jumping at every sound and looking around like the shifty lowlife he is?

Well, with one eye swollen shut and no knowledge of the area—pretty easy.

“You must be stupider than we thought.”

They had knives this time.

Eggsy comes to—later. It’s dark. It’s not where he got caught. He doesn’t have the bag anymore and it must’ve rained because he’s in a puddle. No. he’s making the puddle. It’s red and dyes the air copper.

Then it all comes to him and Eggsy’s no longer hovering over his body’s awareness but fully caught in each cut and bruise and ache. He’s breathing too fast but he’s breathless and he can’t feel his fingers and there’s a ringing sound in the air and he can’t see straight because it’s too dark. It’s too dark and the streetlight is fading out and the ringing’s louder and he’s breathing too fast but no air’s coming in there’s no air that doesn’t taste like copper and he wants to throw up but he’s going to choke on it and die. He’s going to die here, never meeting his soulmate and they’re better for it because he’s _here_ in an alley covered in marks and bleeding too much and running drugs for an asshole that’s scum which means he’s worse. He’s worse than scum and this is how he’s going to die, a perfect representation of his life, worthless worthless worthless.

At least he won’t have shot them.

* * *

Lancelot, at least, has good graces to die whole heartedly, no question about it when he blows himself and the building housing enough weaponry to change the international power balance sky high. No crisis of faith for Harry to have there. The liquor tastes bitter anyway as they toast and leave Lancelot’s body scattered to the winds.

* * *

He wakes up in a room that’s too white, alone and feeling fuzzy. But he can still feel the aches. Which means he isn’t dead.

“Ah!” a pretty nurse says with a smile directed at _him_ which means it must be real bad, because her lot—pretty people with good jobs and common sense—don’t ever smile at his lot—druggies and petty criminals who’ve done nothing good for no one—unless they feel real bad for ‘em “You’re awake, wonderful! We weren’t able to find an ID on you, any chance you can tell us who you are?”

She’s smiling so sweet and her teeth are so straight and white. It’s distracting.

He’s in a hospital then. Those bastards must’ve stolen his wallet too. Maybe his phone too? He doesn’t feel it on him…then again, he doesn’t really feel anything all that well, but can just make out the paper like feeling of hospital clothes. He’s got nothing but some new scars that aren’t his soulmark.

Her smile shifts to sympathetic as he stares at her blankly and she pats him gently on the arm, “S’all right, you take a few, you’ve been through a lot. After another rest or two you’ll be right as rain and then the police can talk to you.”

“Police?” Eggsy croaks because he may be down but that’s one word he can’t afford to be ignorant to.

She’s still smiling but now her straight white teeth look like a shark’s, “they want to question you so they can find out who did this, who hurt you. But don’t you worry, take another rest and they can come back later.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay.”

Then she touches a few cords and leaves. Eggsy’s eyes feel heavy but he can’t. He can’t sleep now, not when he doesn’t know when the police are going to come or even how long he’s been here or when Dean might be looking for him or—

* * *

The recruits are fresh-faced and Harry has to wonder if he ever looked that young. His proposal stands out for his differences, but that’s what will make him great. He doesn’t think of the soulmate his proposal is leaving behind for this, doesn’t think of their child. It was the man’s own choice, and if there’s anything that he’s learned in this life that seems to have already encompassed enough for two lifetimes, is that everyone is the master of their own destiny.

Not that Harry believes in destiny anymore.

* * *

He wakes up and it’s dark and he feels the panic rise before he even knows why and then it hits as he remembers.

_God_ he has to get out of here.

Eggsy looks around. They took his clothes—they were probably too cut up to be considered clothes any more but still—his phone though, his phone’s on the side table, they didn’t take it, not the nurses or the blokes who beat him or the cops.

_Fuck_ the cops. He’s really gotta get out of here.

It’s a day and some odd hours since he left with the drugs. He hasn’t got any missed calls. Probably better that way. Fumbling lethargic, Eggsy’s fingers feel too big for his phone as he enters his passcode and tries hard to clear the cotton from his head. He’s halfway through typing the digit to a number he’s never called before but knows the numbers to by heart when his head clears enough to think _not yet, not yet, not bad enough_ and he hits speed dial one instead.

“Yeah?” Ryan answers. Eggsy could have sworn he called Jamal. Doesn’t matter, just need to get out.

“Ryan—need ya to come get me.”

“Aw mate, you’re not in lock up again are ya? Ya sound right drunk.”

Eggsy can’t even feel indignant.

“Nawh, hospital. Room….132”

“The hospital?” Ryan’s voice rises in pitch. That’s why he tried to call Jamal, Ryan’s a worrier, “what the blood hell happened? Jamal! Jamal get up we gotta go get our boy.”

“Got into it bad, Ryan. The cops are gonna come talk to me and I can’t—I can’t say nothing and I can’t go back to the flat and—” his tongue feels heavy in his mouth, and he has no idea how much of that Ryan could understand.

“Jamal!” Ryan hisses, and there’s a _thwack_ and an indigent _hey!_ over the line, “you sit tight Eggsy, we’re gonna come get ya, don’t you worry, we gonna be right quick.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Eggsy feels someone of his tension leave him. He can always count on Ryan and Jamal.

* * *

Harry’s proposal does well—very well to Arthur’s displeasure. The man seems to like having only one type of person in Kingsman, and he’s gone and shown them all that sometimes it takes a different sort to solve a problem.

* * *

It’s almost amazing they get out of the hospital alive. Right when Jamal and Ryan are hauling him out of the room, his arms on either of their shoulders, thrown into a baggy sweatshirt and pants Jamal had the foresight to bring along, Eggsy sees the cops coming in the entrance and walking towards reception. It could be that they were there just to say ‘hi’ to the pretty things behind the counter, but knowing his luck, they were going to forgo questioning and just take him down to the station.

Fight or flight kicked in, and Eggsy was in no position to fight.

Whosever idea it was to go to the roof is an idiot (it was him, his idea entirely. Both Ryan and Jamal tried to talk him out of it, but between the three of them, Eggsy’s always had a more commanding personality, even, it would seem, when he’s all but hanging between the two of them and unable to walk in a straight line).

Luckily, the roof next door is the same height and not that far off. It’s be child’s play any other day. It sorta looks like Everest today.

“You just gotta toss me.”

“WHAT.” Ryan says the same time Jamal gives a laugh that is more nervous energy than anything.

“Yeah, like a sack of potatoes, just heave me over then pick me up.”

“You’re crazy. They smash your head too?” Eggsy can feel Ryan jitter against him.

“Ryan’s right mate,” Jamal says and Eggsy shoots him a look because at this moment he feels utterly betrayed, “you got banged up bad, and I bet there’s still somma that pain med in ya right now. But when it wears off, throwing you isn’t going to do you any favors.”

“Got no choice,” Eggsy sniffs, “the police are gonna look fer me soon enough.”

Ryan and Jamal exchange a look.

Eggsy heaves a sigh “nah, just leave me here, get going. I always drag you into my shit.” He’d bring his arms from their shoulders but he honestly doesn’t have the strength and maybe they’re right, maybe this is a bad idea.

Ryan mumbles something under his breath as Jamal rolls his eyes.

“You asked for it.”

And then he’s flying. And he has just enough time to register it before he’s crashing, falling to the ground in a crumpled heap.

“OW!” Eggsy yells like he’s dying because that’s what it feels like—like all his bones are breaking and there’s nothing holding him to this earth anymore but pain.

Jamal has no sympathy, “it was your idea.”

“Fuckin’ hell, I think he’s bleeding!” Ryan says, pawing at his sides like that makes any difference.

“Well then we better hurry up, yeah?” Jamal heaves him up and Eggsy feels about as useless as the sack of potatoes he aligned himself with earlier. Can’t even make his damn legs work right.

“Yeah, jus get me oudda ‘ere.” He slurs and it comes out enough like words that Ryan hops to it and they’re dragging him across the rooftop to the roof entrance.

Finally Eggsy’d gotten lucky (and at this point the broad owes him a thing or two) and the building they’re going into is one of those high class business suites where you see a lotta fancy people enter, but they never actually walk the halls anywhere other than straight to their office in the morning and straight out the building in the evening. Since its mid-morning they run into no one and the three teens can get out without attracting attention.

By the grace of…something, they get to Jamal’s and Eggsy can lay down and bask in the feeling of his body wanting to fall apart. Jamal’s pulled off the borrowed sweatshirt and prodding at his cuts, putting antiseptic on like a proper nursemaid.

“You gunna nurse me ta health?”

Jamal rolls his eyes, “you’re lucky I’ve picked up some stuff from my mum, otherwise we’d be bringin’ ya back to the hospital right now.”

Ryan sits down looking away.

“I look that bad, bruv?”

“You know I get squeamish,” Ryan says defensively, like he does every time his intolerance for blood is brought up, “what happened, Eggsy?” he asks in a softer tone, “what the hell got you beat up like this?”

Eggsy winces at the sting of antiseptic on a particularly bad cut, “ain’t nothing you need to worry yourself over. It won’t happen again. I’m…I’m gonna do somethin’ fer my future, ain’t gonna die on the street with drugs on my back.”

There’s a long pause. It’s not the first time he’s mentioned this. At least they’re good enough to not say anything about it, though their silence says it all.

“Wha’da you wanna do anyway? We’re almost outta school, gotta do something with our lives.”

“Eggsy, you haven’t shown up to school for the last month.”

Jamal shoots Ryan a look so Eggsy doesn’t have to, even if it’s to his back.

“Imma train to be a nurse or EMT or somethin’ like that if I can get the money.” Jamal says, “with you lot it’s like I’ve already got my apprenticeship.”

Eggsy laughs, but it hurts his chest to he settles for grinning wildly, “what about you, Ryan?”

“’aven’t given it much thought. Not like I got a lot a options. Pro’ly just go into Da’s business, help with the hauling.”

Eggsy smiles though he wants to frown, even if Ryan sees neither. They both know Ryan loves kids, wants to teach and make a difference in some kid’s life that reminds them all too much of their own. But dreams like that are a dime a dozen and come to places like this to die.

“What about you then, Eggsy?” Ryan asks when the silence stretches on long enough and Jamal’s told Ryan he can turn around because the wounds are dressed.

“Yeah, parkour champion or something?” Jamal teases from the washroom, scrubbing his hands down a second time.

Eggsy snorts, “Nawh. I’m gonna…I’ll…” he takes a moment and then it comes to him so easy it’s a surprise he’d never thought of it before, “I’m gonna join the Royal Guard.”

They both look at him like he’s crazy. They’re probably right.

* * *

When he dies, when Harry’s proposal sacrifices himself to save the other men in the room from the grenade that Harry should have seen—he should have _bloody_ _seen it_ —

Harry knows that this will be the hardest thing he’s ever done. Because he knows, knows that this man was one of the lucky ones, one of the ones that found their soulmate, who got to live with them without complication. And Harry took that away from both of them.

Everyone makes their own decisions, but why did Harry have to give the man the bloody choice in the first place.

* * *

They must have thought the meds went to his head, but once he was healed up he went straight to a recruitment center and signed up. He’d called his mom, let her know what he was doing, but only after he’d signed the forms.

He knew it’d be bad, didn’t know _how_ bad though.

“Come on, Baby, don’t talk nonsense,” Michelle’s voice was tinny over the line, “you come back to the flat and stop all this.”

“Mum,” Eggsy’s heart hurts and he’s glad he’s alone, no one around to witness him beg and plead, “Mum, I almost died. I almost died over Dean’s drugs, and if I come back you know he’s gonna kill me. No warnings or nothing, he’s gonna kill me.”

He can almost see her shake her head, “he wouldn’t do that, Eggsy, Luv, he wouldn’t, you just come back here before you go and get yourself killed.”

“If I come back I’m gonna get killed, Mum, Dean and his lot will kill me and you’ll be there to see it.”

“No, no, you come back,” Michelle’s tears feel worse for their distance, and not just the physical distance, “I’m not sending another of my boys off to die.”

“So you’ll bring me back to die instead?”

“Dean—he wouldn’t do that Eggsy, you’ve got it wrong, he’s fine, he doesn’t care about the—he’s fine, we just want you home.”

“Mum, he’ll really kill me.” He wonders if his tears sound the same, distant “And you want me to come back to that, to be killed.”

“No, no he won’t” she gives a desperate laugh that’s more sob than anything, “he’s changed, luv, he’s changed, it’ll all be all right, just come home, come back to me, he’s changed.”

“Mum,” Eggsy feels his heart break, “if he’s changed, why are you whispering?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are absolutely adored and thanks for reading :)


	4. Burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI all, so, based around the comments i've gotten and the confusion people have had, I went back into the first three chapters and dropped in Harry's name to make it obvious from whose POV any given section is from. besides that there was no real content change--except I've added a picture of Eggsy's tattoo into the 2nd chapter--thank you NotSoSecretlyHiding for the suggestion!

Usually, when a Kingsman dies, no one is informed. They drink their drink in the name of the dead and move on with the calloused efficiency that clings to their work. The bodies are left where they are as all record of their live is summarily erased.

It sits heavy in Harry’s stomach, the truth that while they fight for queen and country and the world on top of that, in death they become nationless, friendless and forgotten.

* * *

The Royal Guard training isn’t easy. He didn’t think it would be, but this is a whole other level. Eggsy was never in bad shape—all the parkour that played on the gymnastics of his youth spoke to that, and he certainly knew how to take a beating, but fuck all if he knew how to throw a good punch, if he knew how to actually fight.

Training is a damn crash course. Intake where him and the rest are thrown together in a bunk house too small and told their physicals will be in five—yes, they know they had physicals during the initial screening, they are doing it again and does he have a problem with that? Because the door is right there.

The mark the tat down as his soul mark. The mark the bullet wound down too—a ‘distinguishing mark’.

Eggsy doesn’t know what kind of people he thought he’d be thrown in with, what other kind of desperate sops would sign up for this, but weirdly enough he makes friends. There’s something about this kind of bonding experience that necessitates it, in a way. He’s getting three squares a day, doesn’t have to worry about being hit unless he’s on the mat, and doesn’t have to hold his breath for fear of being too loud when the lights go out.

Unless Tony is already asleep, dude is a right arse when woken up. But even then, all Tony does is yell swears and make threats he won’t follow through on. It’s funny, even if it make him shoot off like a rocket whenever Tony starts in on it. Hard to unlearn some things, after all.

Weirdly enough, after the first few weeks—which were _actual_ hell—it gets easier. His body is stronger, more endurance, more muscle and more of the right kind of reflexes. His mates are good, both in and out of the guard. Jamal and Ryan were keeping on right enough. Tony finally graduates down to grumbling when the morning alarm goes off, and there is more laugher during the day than Eggsy thinks a place like this warrants, but he isn’t about to protest.

The worst part is when they learn to shoot. His mark throbs for the whole day before their first lessons, and feeling the gun in his hands doesn’t help any.

To his absolute horror he’s a good shot. A natural.

“Haven’t seen talent like that in a long time, Unwin,” Serg says, “but you still got a shitton more to learn so wipe that smile off your face.”

He isn’t smiling.

* * *

Harry can’t leave it like that for his proposal’s family. Can’t have them asking questions that no one will answer, leave them feeling delusional and desperate and hurt and just wanting answers.

But he can’t give them a body; the body was left where it was downed. In a too hot cell stinking of burnt flesh and hollow congratulations as the new Lancelot took his place.

Can’t give them real answers either—Kingsman always prides itself on its secrecy after all. But Harry can tell them the base truth. Can tell them that Lee Unwin did a service for his country and will never be coming home.

* * *

This is how it happens. He shoots his soulmate. He lines them up in his site, or levels a handgun, or is the second for the guy on the gun, getting the perfect shot, and shoots them. If he’s lucky it’ll really be on the hip instead of somewhere more…permanent. Not that he thinks shooting his soulmate at all will get him in anyone’s good graces, but he’d rather them be alive. If only for them to shoot him back. Fair’s fair and all that.

Eggsy starts to get comfortable with it, the idea that he’ll meet his soulmate through the guard somehow. That he’ll discharge his weapon and leave the same mark that brands his skin. It’s starting to feel like an okay kind of thing, like it won’t be the end of the world.

Then his mum called.

They’re allowed phone calls after the fifth week. Not long, only a few minutes, but they’re allowed them all the same. Eggsy had Ryan pass the schedule off to his mom after he’d left and he dutifully went to the phones at the assigned time. Mostly it’s Jamal or Ryan—or both of them—telling him how things are at the estates, how life’s going, what they’ve been up to. His mum never rang though, until now.

“Eggsy?” she’s crying. And it makes Eggsy fracture a little. She cried when he told her he was joining the guard, and now, fourteen weeks into training, he’s hearing her voice through tears again. Will this be how they communicate from now on? Mum crying and Eggsy always on the edge of taking her example, letting the things inside that hurt out.

“Hi Mum,” he says, voice soft. He misses her. So, so much.

“Eggsy you have to come back, p-please, you have to.”

Eggsy didn’t think she could still break him, “I can’t mum, I’m almost done with training. I’m doing something good with my life mum, I need you to be happy for me.”

“I’m pregnant.”

He’s struck speechless.

“I-I learned about a month ago and I stopped, I stopped using, like you’re supposed to when you have a baby, but Eggsy, it’s so hard.”

“Mum.”

“And then I thought of you going off to die, you’re going to die out there and some man is going to come to my door and say you did a great service but you’ll be dead. And baby, when that happens I’m gonna numb that pain any way I can. Can’t live through it again.”

“Mum, you can’t—you can’t put this on me.” Eggsy’s eyes feel hot

“And then the baby’s gonna die too, just like you, and it’s already so hard not to use, not even a little. I-I can’t do this without you, Eggsy,” she’s sobbing, long and loud and the guard says they’ve got two minutes left.

“You can’t do this!” He feels desperate and anxious and like he’ll come right out of his skin, “Don’t do this to me, Mum, I’m out! I’m out and I’m okay for maybe the first time ever and you—” Eggsy cuts himself off.

“Eggsy, I need you.”

He didn’t think it was possible to hate so much.

* * *

She’s beside herself. Pain in the air so thick that Harry feels he might choke on it. She doesn’t take his help. Harry wouldn’t if he were her. If a strange man came to his door right before Christmas and started spouting words that do nothing to heal the wound they inflict.

“I’m sorry ma’am, Ms. Unwin, Lee lost his life while protecting not just his country, but the world. I very much regret that your husband's bravery can't be publicly celebrated. I hope you understand.”

“How can I understand?! You won’t tell me anything!”

Of course she doesn’t. Yesterday she thought her husband was right where he was supposed to be, with his squad out of harm’s way and today she’s getting a medal in exchange for her soulmate. Because Harry didn’t see the grenade.

It’s a painful way to die—grenade. At least he doesn’t have to tell her about it.

“I’m so sorry I can’t say more,” Harry starts, going into the proffered medal and what it represents, it’s a poor trade for a vibrant life, but it’s all he’s allowed to give.

“I don't want your help!” She says around tears, voice breaking and sorrow overwhelming, “I want my husband back!”

Harry goes to her son, gives pleasantries that feel like acid on his tongue because all this little boy knows is that a strange man made his mum mad. He probably doesn’t even understand that his father’s well and truly gone.

Harry hands the boy the medal in a daze, feels the weight of Michelle’s gaze, the hatred stored in those teary eyes like a physical thing. But Harry must give them something, must try to assuage his guilt in the most selfish and pitiable of ways.

* * *

When he gets back, Dean glances at him and then promptly ignores him. His goons follow him with their eyes, but they don’t say shit. It could be because he’s got more muscle now than the lot of them combined, and the training to take at least a few of them out before they knife him. Eggsy prefers to think it’s the look in his eyes. A look that speaks hatred mixed with determination. It doesn’t change when he sets eyes on Michelle.

She’s overjoyed to see him, cries and touches his face like she’s not sure he’s real. She’s starting to show, just a little thing at this point, and Eggsy doesn’t know what he hates more, that unfinished human or his mother. It’s a terrible place to be.

He isn’t nice about making sure his mum doesn’t have any drugs once he’s back. Especially after he learns that she’d already used, once, “before I even knew I was pregnant, Eggsy, you can’t hold that against me.”

“Doesn’t matter, might have a miscarriage just from that, Mum, then where’d we be?”

“I know baby, I know, but we’ll get through this together.”

Eggsy never answers when she pulls shit like that.

Dean’s better, at least. Eggsy isn’t too worried about getting knifed in his sleep or anything like he’d been when he first left for the guard. It seems even Dean realized that he needed Eggsy if he wanted his kid.

Eggsy doesn’t remember all that much about his dad passing outside of the necklace he got and the slow decline of their living situation. But Dean knows enough of it, having gotten into Michelle’s good graces when she was still too devastated to make any kind of informed, thought out decision. Dean knows how bad she was then, losing her husband and soulmate. He must figure it’ll be pretty damn bad if her kid bites it, especially now that she’s got access to drugs.

The first few months are rough, real fucking rough. Eggsy doesn’t want to be there, he wants to be back at basic with his friends becoming someone he can be proud of, someone whose soul isn’t a wound and whose soul mark is a lie. And he doesn’t hide it from mum, wants her to hurt like she hurt him.

Then, when Eggsy is too tired to be angry anymore and is halfway to making peace with the fact that he really will be shit all for the rest of his life, he wakes up early (like he does every day since basic). Instead of the sound of sleeping around him, he hears singing. Soft and hesitant but lovely.

It’s coming from the bathroom. It’s his mum, hand resting gently on her belly as she sings. Eggsy would bet she did that when she was pregnant with him. Except then it wouldn’t be a small scared thing, it’d be loud and happy, and maybe, just maybe, with another voice joining in. Perhaps his dad was bad at singing and mum would dissolve into giggles, or maybe he was good and they’d just sing away together, a private concert. Or maybe he wouldn’t sing at all, instead look at Michelle with so much love that it would hurt his heart.

The door creaks as Eggsy moves forward without thinking. Michelle cuts off abruptly, head snapping up to look at the door, eyes wide. He doesn’t know what his face looks like, but it must not be good.

“Eggsy, baby, what’s wrong?” she gestures him in.

Eggsy can’t believe he spent any time in his life hating this woman. Can’t believe he _wanted_ to make her hurt. They’ve both been hurting too long and too deep for Eggsy’s selfish, petty stings to be anything other than they are; monstrous. Seeing the vulnerability his mum lays bare to him because she has no one else and slapping her with it, throwing it back at her with poisonous intent. How is he different than Dean, if he’s willing to purposely hurt someone?

Eggsy steps forward and closes the door behind him because he knows he’ll have to fight to be quiet, “I’ve been a fuck up mum, I’m an absolute shit to you,” Michelle’s hushing him, urging him into her arms, and Eggsy can feel hot tears fall, “I’m the worst, Mum, the worst, and you deserve so much better and things are shit and I went ‘n made em worse, I’m a fuck up—” he’s cut off by his own sob.

“Hush now love,” Michelle wraps her arms around him tight and Eggsy can’t believe he’s still worth this, “you’re alright. You’ve been hurting is all.” She rocks him gently and Eggsy feels small again, feels like there really is nothing in the world that can harm him when he’s here, in his mother’s arms, “and a lot of that’s my fault, Eggsy, I know that. And that don’t make it right. I…I haven’t been the mother I shoulda been.”

Eggsy looks up and her eyes are wet too and he’s just made it worse, “no Mum, no, you’ve done what you gotta to get us through, you did right by me.”

Michelle shakes her head, “I’ve made mistakes, love.”

And the truth is, she has, and he has. And she hasn’t always done right by him and he hasn’t always been the son he should have been. They’ll always be a little too splintered and cracked, always hurt each other in intended and accidental ways, but the truth of the matter is they’re all they’ve got. They’ve got each other and soon enough they’re gonna have another on their side, one that won’t be broken or cracked at all, one that Eggsy’s sure as hell gonna make sure stays that way.

* * *

Harry fancies that the mark gets lighter. The longer he lives without his intended, the fainter their bond, the more likely they never existed in the first place. He’s not alone in not finding his other, especially in his line of work. Some, like him, haven’t found their soulmates. Others have and keep them as far away from the conflict as possible. The real lucky ones, he thinks have their soulmate in their ranks. It must be hard, knowing exactly what kind of danger your soulmate is walking into every time they leave, but isn’t it better to know they’re prepared? Know exactly how ready they are to face the challenges ahead, never to be caught unaware?

At least that's what Harry thinks when he catches Percival and Lancelot sharing a chaste kiss before they head to their respective mission briefings. They're happy, even if the sense of worry must hover over them like a fog. Lancelot catches him looking and gives a cheeky smile and a wink as he passes. It must be nice, having someone to come back for.

There are those whose stories aren’t so nice, who don't get that kind of chance. Tragedies for the ages; ones where their soulmate dies before their time and the one left alive scorers the earth for a ghost. Others where a soulmate dies to save the other; a tragedy classic literature always likes to play up. Or worse yet, one soulmate kills the other.

Harry makes a point not to check the marks of the men and woman he’s killed. It’s better to wait for a person who will never come than to know you’re the one that killed them.

* * *

It’s easier after that, they come to an understanding of sorts, Eggsy finally old enough to truly understand the circumstances of his life, to see his mother not as some passive evil or broken protector, but as a person who’s just trying to live the life she’s got.

She stays off the drugs, doesn’t once try to use and when she confides in him late one night when the baby’s kicking is keeping her up that she won’t go back to it, won’t ever use drugs again, Eggsy feels a vicious sort of happiness.

Her vow extends to childbirth, it seems.

They’re 12 hours in and she’s still refusing an epidural. Eggsy’s begged her six ways to Sunday to please just have one, but she’s sticking to her guns.

Jamal’s mum is the nurse, thank god, so Eggsy’s not running himself into too much of a panic, and Jamal and Ryan are in the waiting room for moral support or some shit and _god_ does he have the best mates ever. But they’re out there and Eggsy’s in here, letting his mum try to crush his bones, hoping that this will all just end soon because Mum looks like she’s gonna pass out or _die_ or something and god, nothing is worth this.

And then she comes out, screaming bloody murder and Eggsy falls in love right there. She’s 3.4kgs, got all her fingers and toes, and definitely a good set of lungs. Mum names her Daisy. _Daisy_. Jamal’s mum wipes her off and hands her to Michelle who’s giving breathless little laughs, face sweaty and tears running down her cheeks.

Once little Daisy’s stopped screaming her heart out, she just looks like a content baby, eyes shut tight and the tiniest little hands gripping at nothing. Eggsy puts one finger to her palm and she holds it tight. He is so viscerally grad that Dean’s not here, had found something better to do than be there for the birth of his child. He doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve to even look at her.

Jamal and Ryan give Daisy her first gift, a sweet little teddy bear. When Michelle places it with her, Daisy starts to gnaw at its nose. Eggsy’s cheeks hurt for smiling so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what better way to celebrate the 4th than by writing about british spies? thanks for reading and as always, comments are loved--and please let me know if the pov changes are easier to follow or not.


	5. Run

 

Harry doesn’t touch the mark anymore. Doesn’t idly trace its soft lines or caress it while thinking of the marvelous person who could be behind it. It’s high time he stop believing in fairy tales and storybook endings.

* * *

The first time Dean yells at Daisy for crying, Eggsy decks him. Dean goes down and looks up at Eggsy with a shock, hand cradling his cheek.

“Eggsy!” Michelle shouts aghast, but she’s firmly on the other side of the room, bouncing Daisy in her arms to try and quiet her and staying clear of any fists that might fly. Eggsy remembers when he used to resent her for not coming to his aid, stopping Dean somehow with the imagined powers his young mind bestowed on her. Now he’s glad she’s far away, he can take the punches for the two of them—he owes her that much at least.

“Don’t you ever do that again.” Eggsy’s so furious he could kill him. He does not, under any circumstance, want Daisy to grow up in a flat where she has to whisper, where she can’t cry too loud or shriek in happiness.

“You’re gonna regret that boy.” Dean slowly stumbles to his feel, not taking his eyes of Eggsy.

“Not today I won’t.” Eggsy spits and they stare at one another for a long moment. Then Daisy lets out a sound and the spell is broken. Eggsy turns away with one last look, going over to his sister. Dean grumbles something and stalks off. Eggsy is going to regret that, in one way or another, but for now he’s just pleased.

“That was stupid, Eggsy,” Michelle says as Eggsy talks nonsense to Daisy to make her look at him with those wide blue eyes and something like a smile on her face.

“He can’t be yelling at a baby for making noise, Mum, _that’s_ what’s stupid.”

Michelle snorts and they both look down at Daisy, who looks nothing like she’d been wailing not five minutes ago to start this whole fiasco.

* * *

Most days he’s happy enough. Harry doesn’t think about it anymore, doesn’t look at it. It’s like he’s one of the markless. It’s better this way. He has his dog, has his friends, and can go on his missions with no regret, nothing holding him back. It’s better this way. It’s better.

* * *

Eggsy’d always been a bit light fingered. When you’re from the estates it was a point of pride really. He got out of the habit when he was training for the guard, of course, but now with Daisy around and Dean finally giving them a bit of breath, at least for the moment, Eggsy wants her and mum to have nice things.

Like good food. None of that super processed shit, Mum is gonna eat right, and Dais too. And his sister is gonna have some good toys to play with, maybe a giraffe or lion to go with her bear. And she needs diapers and clothes and power. Babies aren’t cheap, and no one is in the market to hire a bruv who has more marks on his record then bright spots and who left the Royal Guards before training was even over. That’s the part that gets to him, that people would think when things get tough, Eggsy bails. Or worse, that he washed out. Wasn’t good enough. Useless.

So he relearns his skill. Turns out it’s just like riding a bike. He pops into the flat when Dean isn’t around so Dais won’t have to hear the yelling and Eggsy won’t have to hit or get hit, and drop off whatever he’s bought with his ‘earnings’. He makes Mum promise to tell him if Dean starts yelling at her or Daisy, and she promises to. She hasn’t said anything about it yet and Eggsy’s trying hard to believe her.

When he’s out and Jamal isn’t shadowing his mum at the hospital and Ryan isn’t being an extra hand for his dad, they meet up and just free run wherever they can get to. It’s freeing, those times, when all he can hear is the wind whipping about and the occasional whoop from his mates.

But they always have to stop sometime, and Eggsy sneaks into the flat, quiet as can, and sleep, only to sneak back out before anyone but Daisy is awake. That little one is always in her crib trying to eat her own foot or some other foolishness. She looks almost too big for it now. Eggsy has to marvel at how quick she grows, how time passes so fast when there’s a little one about.

He tried not to let those kinds of thoughts dissolve into what he’s done with _himself_ with the time that’s passed. The lad that escaped to the Guard is well and truly gone. And he isn’t mad at his mum anymore, and he doesn’t regret coming back, being here for her and Daisy. But if he thinks about it too long—the past or the future—he’s pulled down into his stagnant reality.

It’s like his mark, really—his _real_ mark—the past is a wound, the present is scarred, and the future is too, because there’s no coming back from it. From who you are.

Whenever he looks at her too long in the mornings, when everything is still quiet, his mark will encroach on the moment, stabbing at his waking mind, and the only thing he can do as he looks down at this beautiful girl, is hope she never gets a mark like his.

* * *

When Lancelot dies, a lot of things happen at once.

Percival loses his soulmate and Harry feels silly for ever thinking the men lucky. He walks like a ghost; Percival does all his tasks, never falls short or shrinks from them in grieving like Arthur seems to perversely hope. Harry doesn’t know how he’s doing it, but the fact that Percival’s keeping himself so closed off, keeping his sorrow so internal when Harry still has Lee Unwin’s widow’s anguished cries fresh in his mind (they’re always fresh in his mind) worries him to no end.

And not a half week later Arthur’s telling them to bring in their candidates. Harry side eyes Percival across the table and wonders how it feels to not have the time or freedom to mourn before replacements are gathered. Wonders how he’s making it through.

Percival catches his eye and gives a smile that seems to answer all of Harry’s unasked questions with a rueful ‘I don’t know’ as his eyes stay years away. It hits Harry with such a strong sense of de ja vu, that he has to wonder, before he’s even thought of his prospect, how he’s going to tell a family their love one’s dead. How that will put out any light in their eyes as easy as a snuffed candle.

* * *

Dean and he, they reach a kind of tacit agreement for a while there. Eggsy doesn’t show his face when Dean’s around, Dean pretends he can’t hear Eggsy coming in the flat at night. It works out nice enough. Eggsy should have known Dean was just biding his time.

He doesn’t try to go after him like he used to when Eggsy was still a scrawny teen that couldn’t punch for nothing. Instead, on those rare occasions that they cross paths when ones leaving and the others entering (and Eggsy thinks he’s planning it somehow, because it’s happening more and more as time goes by) Dean mentions a violent dispute two flats down. Or the mugging that happened the other day in the estates. A druggie that went crazy, a cop that hit too hard, a husband that beat his wife.

Eggsy doesn’t think too much of it (stupid, stupid mistake). Dean’s been in his life a long while, and all that time the man’s been seeped in violence. It’s not new for Dean to speak on terrible events with fondness. It used to be one of the ways he’d keep a younger Eggsy on his toes—hold a knife and talk about how ‘terrible’ that fatal stabbing was, where the father killed his wife and kid.

“Isn’t that a shame?” Dean would say, turning the knife just so and catching the light, “the boy probably didn’t listen. Made his Da snap.” Then he’d always click his tongue, set the knife down with a caress and look back at Eggsy, make sure Eggsy had fear in his eyes.

Dean thrived on feeling powerful, always chose younger and weaker people to subjugate. Always found people who feared him. So the childhood tactic isn’t missed by Eggsy, but he isn’t that small boy anymore. They both know that Eggsy’s the stronger of the two now, and Dean doesn’t have his lot around all the time. So Eggsy feels safe in his ability and doesn’t think much of it (how could he have been so stupid?).

When it happens, Eggsy thinks he should have seen it coming, should have been more prepared. Should have _stopped_ it from happening in the first place.

No one’s ever prepared to see their mum with a black eye, no matter how many times they’ve seen it before.

“Eggsy…” she says warily, before he can even fall out of his shock, “don’t be thinking of doing anything stupid.”

“I’ll kill im.” Eggsy says with less heat that he wants, too concerning with turning Michelle’s face from side to side to see exactly how bad it is.

“Oh hush,” she admonishes, but seems pleased with the fussing.

“Is Daisy…” he can’t look.

Michelle snorts, “he aint gonna hurt a baby, Eggsy, he aint a monster.”

 _Yes he is_. Eggsy thinks with venom but doesn’t say. He thinks his mum hears him anyway.

Dean walks in on Eggsy holding Daisy, rocking the tired girl to sleep, and they both know in that second she’s the only reason Dean’s not already flat on the floor.

“Yer mum got mugged. Mighty violent in these parts,” he says, “never know when it could happen again.”

Michelle stays where she is, frozen on the far side of Daisy’s pen, eyes trained on the floor.

“Mum, hold Daisy for me.”

Dean scowls, “you’re not here all the time, boy, and I have more friends than you in these parts. You made some enemies going off and actin like you were better than us, tryin for the Guard.” He spits, “shoulda just kept to your place.”

“Mum.” Eggsy holds Daisy towards her and that snaps her out of whatever it is she falls into sometimes when things get too much. Eggsy used to think it was the drugs, but as it’s become clear that it isn’t…well, sometimes he wishes it was.

For a man with so much talk, he looks mighty frightened when Eggsy hands Daisy off. But Eggsy knows he’s right, and unless he’s gonna move the three of them out tonight and never look back, he’s got to play along enough that this never, _never_ happens again.

Eggsy gets in close, wishing he was just a bit taller, could lord over Dean the way he’s been lorded over for most of his life “she ain’t your punching bag, Dean.”

“I seemed to’ve misplaced my old one.”

Eggsy doesn’t growl, but it’s a close thing, “what the fuck do you want.”

* * *

Harry puts off picking a prospect—each time he looks at a file his eyes go to their family. Anyone with children he can’t look at long. Anyone with a partner he lingers over, feeling a wife’s grief and the shuttered sorrow of Percival. Those that are alone, unattached and aimless, he knows would never survive this job, wouldn’t leave their first kill as anything more than haunted shadows if they made it back at all, with nothing pushing them to survive. Harry steadfastly ignores that he has no one. His hand touches his mark. No one.

“Sir.” A knock on his door, “Your number’s been called.”

He looks up from the files he hasn’t actually been seeing for the past two hours and wonders which of his life debts is calling. Three times in his career he’s given out the number. Once in helplessness, once in sorrow, and once in gratitude.

The voice that comes across the line when he plays the recording is young. Young and tight and full of futile desperation. Helplessness then.

* * *

He swore when he left he’d never get back into Dean’s business. Told Ryan and Jamal that no matter what, he wasn’t gonna even touch those drugs again. Even if the Guard doesn’t take him. No matter what, he’s not going to be Dean’s bitch again. Now it doesn’t really feel like a choice. That doesn’t make him feel any better about it.

Dean’s crew starts coming out of the woodwork though, now that he’s doing drops like them. Or they were always there and he never took notice of them any more than he would a wall or a particularly ugly gargoyle.

His issues with them and there’s with him are solved late at night when they corner him in a lot that doesn’t have any good places to free run out. Six of them and one of him. Holds his own for a while there, and he can tell they’re surprised that he isn’t the same scrawny kid they used to wail on. Takes out Poodle for good before Rottie and Shepard pin his arms and cut out his legs so the other three can take turns. But he gives enough of them some nasty bruises (and a broken noise to Doberman, but judging from the guy’s normal profile, it isn’t the first time) that for the most part, they stay away. It’s a lot more straightforward with them than with Dean, they haven’t got the same desperate, grinding, cutting _need_ to be superior.

Sure they still threaten him regularly, and Eggsy’s sure they’re more than willing to follow through, regardless of what it costs them, but now that they’ve seen his strength, they’re a little easier to dissuade. Eggsy can talk himself out of impending fights in a way he’d never been able to before. They don’t fear him, too dumb for fear, the lot of them, but they aren’t jostling to fight him quite as much.

It works for the most part. But sometimes the posse pushed a bit further than they should, and it isn’t like Eggsy to step back and be walked on. Even at his lowest he always got in a snarl or bite.

That’s how he ends up driving Poodle’s car in circles, Jamal and Ryan whooping at his sides, feeling more alive and free then he has in too long.

And then it all comes crashing down.

There have been a lot of times when he’s touched the pendant at his neck, a lot of times he’s whispered nonsensical words to himself, and half-dialed a number, let the faint memory of a highly polished voice bring him vague, misplaced sense of comfort.

When he got older and the voice faded from his memory, he’s just tap the thing, a mindless habit that brought with it more comfort than his soul mark and held with it the faint promise of salvation. That’s probably what kept him from calling the number on the back the most, even though he’s looked at it so many times the numbers are etched into his brain.

The thought that things can always be worse. He’s half punched in the number a dozen times before; the first time Dean dropped his act and hit his mother, when he woke up at the hospital and was so sure that Dean was going to kill him, when he learned that Mum was pregnant. But what stopped him ever time was simple enough. This isn’t that bad. I can survive this. We’ll _really_ need it some other time.

And so he didn’t call the number when he got beat, because he could live through it and being beat wasn’t new or strange. And he didn’t call it when Dean had him run drugs because that was his new reality. And he didn’t call when Daisy came around because Eggsy was around and he wasn’t going to _let_ anything happen to her. And he didn’t call it when he thought he was going to die because it could be worse. It could be so much worse.

The thing is, he doesn’t even have a good reason for calling it _now_. His life isn’t in danger. He doesn’t want to go to jail but it’s not a death sentence. Daisy and Mum aren’t in immediate danger—Dean’s not going to hurt them when Eggsy’s not around to be hurt by it, unable to get the power trip. Hell, going away might be better for them, one less thing to incite Dean and put them in the path of furry.  

But.

He doesn’t _want_ to. God, he does not want to. He’s 25 and just starting with his life. And it’s a shitty life, a really, really shitty one. But he doesn’t want to leave it. And it makes him selfish beyond all compare, using up the one shot he has to make things marginally better for his mum and Daisy like this, but he’s already dialed the number and is holding it up to his ear, spewing out his story in a rush when a woman’s voice answers.

She threatens to hang up and Eggsy’s never felt such acute panic before.

“Wait, wait wait!” Eggsy feels silly even saying it“…Oxfords not Brogue?”

“ _Thank you. Your complaint has been noted. We value you as a customer.”_ And then the line disconnects.

Eggsy stays listening to the dial tone for a long moment.

It doesn’t work. The safety blanket he’d been keeping on him for the past twenty some odd years is just that, something to comfort but not to protect. That’s what he gets for being selfish with it.

He didn’t even call someone who mattered. His mum’s going to have to find out from the Sun that he got arrested. Jamal and Ryan are gonna wonder when he went and then they’re gonna see he’s in jail for that stupid stunt and they’re gonna visit him and say stupid shit like it should be them not him, but it is him and it should be because it was him, it was all him.

He’s in that interrogation room for another twenty something minutes, waiting for the detective to come back and booking to start. Twenty minutes he has to grill himself for his stupidity, for his recklessness. Twenty minutes to wonder how his mum will take the news. She’ll probably come visit him if he ends up some place close, with Daisy on her hip. Speak to him through the telephones and glass, always with the edge of tears in her voice. Just as long as she doesn’t go back to drugs, it won’t be that bad. He has to believe that.

The detective comes in looking disgruntled, “you’ve got friends in high places.” Is all he says and just like that, in a startling moment, Eggsy’s free to leave the station.

He’s confused, uncomprehending and blank. Then realization dawns. He used his safety blanket—which was actually a parachute at 5000ft—for nothing but selfishness. It makes him feel raw and worthless and nothing like a kid who just skipped past a jail sentence. His throat feels dry and tongue heavy and there’s an unpleasant static going through his limbs.

It’s not like he can show it though. It’s not what the detective expects from his kind of people. And if he shows it, he’s not going to keep it together in the least. So Eggsy saunters out of the station, because acting like he’s an ass is one hundred percent easier than trying to figure out anything else.

And then he meets Harry.

Bit of a dick (lot of a dick). The way he fights though? Makes the Royal Guard look like scouts playing at soldiers. Eggsy doesn’t know what he wants more—to be able to do that, or to keep watching Harry destroy the giants of his childhood. He can handle them well enough now, but the real point of it is, Harry, someone who only knows what’s written in his (admittedly) not so flattering file decides to fight them for no other reason than they insulted Eggsy. Harry fights them _for Eggsy._ It’s really, really hot.

And then he sits back down like it’s fucking nothing, finishes his pint, and tells him about his tailor shop for fucks sake. Harry walks out of the Black Prince and _that_ is how you saunter.

Eggsy’s staring at the door, mouth opened like a fish, feeling like he did when he was fifteen and a set of twins—a pretty broad and a prettier bloke—decided he was worth a second look, all flushed and pleased and absolutely awed. And then a groan comes from the ground.

Eggsy’s mouth stays dropped for a totally different reason and his eyes go wide, “shit. Shit shit shit fuck.” He jumps out of the booth. “fuck fuck fuck.” Hops around the strewn bodies and out the door. He starts to jog—well, he gets one step at a jog and then he’s breaking into a run.

He has to get to the flat before any of them tell Dean. Can’t have some rich bloke comes down and beat up Dean’s lot for ‘im and expect to get out of it scotch free. When Dean finds out it’s gonna be bad, really bad. He’s gotta get mum and Daisy out or—or at least tell Mum he’s not going to be around for a while. Then lay low somewhere, which will mean living in the park more than he does under a roof probably. He’s done it enough times before. He used his one shot at a better life on something that ended up putting Daisy, Mum, and himself in more danger than if he just went to jail—fucking _idiot._

God, and Harry just had to go around looking like he did. Dripping with old money and social capitol. That makes it so much worse. it’s one thing to get help from another kid from the estates, that’s right and natural, and Eggsy’s done it enough times with Jamal and Ryan that Dean’d be angrier at his own lot for getting beat by some kids—even if they’re all out of their teens now. It’s another to have a rich daddy defending your honor. He’s reaching above his station. And Dean wasn’t a huge fan last time, and last time didn’t involve his crew getting fucked six ways to Sunday.

Eggsy’s never free run faster, going the absolute shortest route to the flat. Landing at the door with an impact that almost hurts and then he’s crashing through it.

Michelle’s right there, almost gets blown over. Her eyes go wide and she’s shoving at his chest, pushing him back, “go Eggsy, you’ve got to go now! _Go_ —”

She’s cut off by a violent move, shoved to the side and Eggsy’s being forced back against the wall, knife to his throat and Dean spitting in his face about the fancy gent who beat his boys.

“I don’t know nothing!” Eggsy gets out, feeling the knife move against his throat as he speaks. Mum’s yelling. Daisy’s crying, loud as anything, and Dean’s threatening, knife pushing in harder and harder with every fucking word.

And Eggsy thinks: this is how I die.

“I don’t think you will, Dean Baker” A voice— _Harry’s_ voice, with all its polished edges and rich lit—seems to be coming from every corner of the room and suddenly Eggsy can breathe because Dean’s pulled back to brandish his knife against a voice. Dean yells something, Harry, the disembodied voice, speaks calmly back but Eggsy can’t for the life of him recite what they say because his head’s spinning and he still feels the pressure of a blade against his throat, and he’s stumbling back and out the door, pivoting on his foot and running away.

Can he ever stop running?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are adored


	6. Buzz

Eggsy’s fantastic. Full of anger and warry as an abused dog, but fantastic. He snarls more than he speaks at first, laying into it when his choices and life are questioned, are judged. And then he flips like a switch, urging Harry away as a group of ruffians puff up and try to look threatening.

It’s with faint amusement that Harry turns to go; always novel to have someone worry about him, especially against such opponents, but then words are said and he doesn’t feel the slightest bad for what happens next. Especially as it means he gets to finish his beer.

When the young man looks at him, eyes wide, impressed and skittishness fighting for space, Harry thinks he might have just found his proposal—so much like his father. He palms a small mic to the boy’s jacket. Better to make sure of it.

* * *

 

The tailor shop is easy enough to find, and the man inside it who is certainly not a tailor is just as easy. And then it’s bat shit insane ramblings about secret organizations and trust fund kids who didn’t know what to do with all their cash that ended up creating said secret organization.

Harry says it’s to protect the world. Eggsy can’t help thinking that it’s people with too much money and power that the world needs to be protected _from_ but what does a kid from the estates know anyway.

He takes the chance. Of course he fucking does. What’s he got to go back to but a high chance of getting shanked? And Dean's always been better tempered when Eggsy’s not around, or so Michelle says, and at this point, since returning to the flat really isn’t an option, that’s something he’s got to believe.

Kingsman’s got more history on him than his mum knows, that’s for sure, but as they’re doing the medical evaluation and cataloguing his fitness before training starts, they make the same mistake.

The medic giving him his physical evaluation is a young looking thing, big glasses and bigger touchpad as she walks around and catalogues.

“That’s a very pretty soul mark,” she says from behind him and Eggsy tells himself not to tense but he does anyway,

“Oh, I’m sorry.” She noticed, god, already he’s making a terrible spy, “did something happen to them?”

“Who knows,” Eggsy tries for an unaffected shrug, not thinking about how his soulmate could very well already be dead, a bullet shot through them, “’Aven’t found them yet.”

“Chin up,” she’s trying to be cheery, “you’re young yet.”

Eggsy can’t help but laugh as he slips his clothes on, “I was told this ain’t the kind of job that allows for casual dating on the side.”

She looks at him from the corner of her eye, “there are more chances than you’d think.” And then he’s being dismissed. Eggsy isn’t going to fuck this up by sleeping with a (very pretty) coworker of sorts, but it does put a bit of a spring in his step—it’s always nice to know you’re wanted.

Especially as you walk into a room where they emphatically _don’t_ want you. Trust fund kids, the lot of ‘em. Amelia and Roxy seem nice, at least a whole hell of a lot better than Charlie and his lot. Great to see that despite money and upbringing, assholes are the same across the board.

Merlin—Eggsy has to hope that it’s a fake name, because _Merlin_ , lord, who does that to a kid?—is going to be their trainer

He explains the proposal process, talks about how they’ll be put to the test, mentally and physically, and then that there will only be one. They’re not being trained as a class, Kingsman only takes the best, and only one of them will fill that role. And then he tells them how important teamwork is. Bit hypocritical.

“You will notice,” Merlin nods his head in the direction of one of the rows of beds, “that there are body bags on your cots. Fill out the information. We at Kingsman do not assure your safety. Kingsman is here to safeguard the world, and sometimes that means that an agent does not come home.”

Eggsy looks at the bag long and hard. Thinks about a man in a suit showing up at the flat and giving his mom a medal. Thinks about a man in a suit showing up at Jamal’s, how that would fracture him. Thinks about a man in a suit showing up at Ryan’s, how he would cry.

“It’s just a scare tactic,” Roxy says to his right, “like they do in the military.”

Eggsy nods, gives a little smile at her reassuring look. He doesn’t put down any names, any addresses. Sometimes not knowing it better.

* * *

 

Harry knew of course, from the file he read before he went to collect the boy from jail, but he didn’t _know_. It’s amazing, hearing the woman whose angry tears haunt him crying again, this time in absolute terror as they yell for her boy and at her new husband. A baby’s cry is intermixed somewhere in there and it paints a picture he doesn’t want to contemplate.

Harry knew the area had changed since he was first there, since he brought bad news and broke the woman’s spirit. But this…Harry feels responsible as he speaks calmly through the bug, listing out the abusive man’s crimes and helping the boy of the man Harry got killed escape his own death.

Everyone makes their own destiny, he tells himself as the anguished cries ring in his ears. Harry cannot control the actions of another. But he can be the cause of them.

And then Eggsy is coming into the shop and Harry throws on a smile, absolutely delighted by the scowl he gets in return. It doesn’t stop the simmer of guilt, but with Eggsy so very alive in front of him, it’s hard to accept how close Eggsy’d been to his death.

* * *

 

He wakes up to the slosh of water against his chest. Its panic for a hot moment across the room as everyone realizes that the water’s still rising.

“Toilet!” Charlie yells with his last bit of air before the room fully floods. Eggsy almost loses his held breath with the incredulous look he’s shooting at him. Must be a rich kid thing, because almost everyone is swimming over, further into the room.

Eggsy heads to the door, which makes more sense to him than the toilets, but it’s locked tight. He gropes around the rim of the door, but there’s no telltale feeling of water rushing out between the cracks. It’s completely sealed.

_This is a test._ Eggsy looks around. No door is made like this unless it’s designed with this in mind. That means there’s another way out. Harry—Merlin—Kingsman—wants them to find another way.

Nothing obvious. Of course there’s nothing obvious. Looks for vents, a second door. But the only thing that’s not an appliance on the walls is the mirror. The long mirror that reminds Eggsy of something by its cut and placement.

He swims over, passes the lot of them with tubes—from the showers—shoved up the toilets. Must be air because they’re letting out air bubbles and don’t look the strained feeling Eggsy’s got where his lungs start to burn. Looks at the mirror. There’s no second outline, just the one reflected image and he’s right. One way glass.

Eggsy braces himself against the lip of it, and punches, hard as he can against the glass with so much water resistance holding him back. He can feel it vibrate under his fist. He does it again, and again. It starts to crack and Eggsy needs to get it on this one because his lungs are burning and each hit is pushing a little more air out of him. Pulls back one more time and hits with all his might and it _works_. The glass breaks and the water leaving in a rush widens the hole he created, dragging him and the rest of the group through the glass, into the observation room behind it.

“Charlie, Roxy, good job on the snorkels, once you get around the s-curve, you’ve got an unlimited supply of air. Eggsy, good job identifying the one way glass.” Merlin says, calm as you please, dry as a desert.

“From all his time in interrogation,” Charlie gets out, breathless, and his lot gives half-hearted chuckles when they get the air for it.

“I wouldn’t be laughing,” Merlin cuts in, “as far as I’m concerned, all of you failed. You forgot the most important thing,” he points into the room, and there’s Amelia, laying on her bed, not moving, “Teamwork.”

Eggsy scrambles up, Roxy a second later than him, and they’re going through the remnants of the glass, Roxy with a bit more care. They slosh through the foot or so of water that’s still in the room and Eggsy flips her over, hand hovering over her mouth and another placed on her stomach. He feels them move.

“she’s still breathing” Eggsy gets out in a whisper, looking at Roxy, “she’s still—” he rasps louder, “she’s still breathing,” Merlin does nothing, “get a fucking medic!”

The door to their right, the only true entrance, opens up and two paramedics rush in, pushing Eggsy and Roxy back before carting Amelia away.

“To your new rooms.” Merlin motions and heads down the hall. Eggsy and Roxy climb back through and trail behind. They make eye contact and that’s it. There may only be one person getting out of this as the ‘winner’, but Eggsy’s got someone who has his back. Hey may not make it out on top, but he has a little more hope now that he’ll make it out alive.

Their new rooms are almost identical to the old ones, cots lining both walls and showers and bathrooms at the far end. Instead of one long window mirror there are small round ones. Eggsy checks to make sure they’re not one way again, just in case. The only real difference is that there’s a bed in the corner that has a half-assed partition on its cornered side, obviously for Roxy now that she’s the only girl. Eggsy wonders what they would have done if Amelia had made it through too.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep again.” Roxy murmurs, as they all make their way to cots, clothes still dripping half-heartedly onto the floor.

“Should at least try,” Eggsy mumbles back, taking the cot next to hers in unspoken agreement, “if this is anything like the Guard we’re getting up before the sun does.”

“Wonderful.” Roxy says with the enthusiasm of someone who almost drowned. She slips into her little changing booth and comes out mostly dry in new clothes while the rest of them shuck where they are and everyone settles down to go to sleep again.

Eggsy thinks he’s got an advantage, as he listens to springs sound and people toss in their bunks, he’s gone to sleep many a night before knowing he could wake up to someone trying to hurt him. Something as normal as that isn’t going to keep him from sleep, just makes it easier for him to get up.

And he needs it too, when at 4:30am they’re being roused, told to get in training clothes, put on the fitness watches that are with their clothes, and head out to the track. Eggsy has no fucking idea where the ‘track’ is, but he dresses and waits for Roxy, following her blindly.

The place they’re at, the training facility, well, it’s nothing like training for the Guard. This is a fucking _estate_. He didn’t see it before, having gone from underground tunnel to the bunks, but now that he has, he knows Harry wasn’t lying when he said Kingsman was made by a bunch of wankers who had too much money and were above giving to the poor. This place is swanky.

The ‘track’ is a 10km running trail. And Merlin—who looks exactly the same as he did last night and Eggsy has to wonder when the guy sleeps, or if he does at all—tells them they’ll be running it until the sun comes up.

“And do keep a pace of at least 1km per 6 minutes. If you can’t do that, I don’t know how you got here in the first place.”

Eggsy looks at his little tracker watch, at least they don’t have to know their pace without the watch. He’d burn out way to quick.

And they’re off. Charlie sprints ahead, Hugo on his heels, and the rest of the group goes at a loping pace. After the first full lap they’ve spread out a bit more, Roxy and Eggsy keeping stride with one another at around 5.3 minutes a kilometer. It’s going to be about two hours until the sun comes up, no need to rush it.

The trail is nicely maintained, no roots to trip them up or anything, and it’s wide enough that passing is easy enough. It’s just _boring_. There’s no variation, and Eggsy knows his free running will be a hell of a lot more handy than being able to run for multiple hours on flat ground. But whatever. He’s not the trainer.

It’s a good chance to actually get to know each other though, and they take it.

Roxy tells him about her uncle Percival, who proposed her. Told him she’s the first woman to ever be proposed. Eggsy’s a little shocked, but old money isn’t exactly the first demographic to change with the times. Tells him Percival told her all about the history of the group before asking if she wanted a shot. Told her that proposing her would make Arthur—the head guy in charge—a bit miffed about letting a woman try. Needless to say, that’s what clinched it for Roxy and that’s when she knew it wasn’t enough to just be proposed and do well, she had to do the best.

Eggsy told her his own whirlwind story, about how he knew shit about Kingsman besides some rich guys ran it—all old white guys from what Roxy’s comments said about ‘em—about how his Dad must have been a part of it, somehow, but he died before he could pass on the legacy or anything like that. Didn’t tell her about Dean, or any of that nonsense, just that Harry got him out of jail and offered him a job to be a ‘tailor’ and that was that.

“Harry?” Roxy looks flabbergasted.

“Yeah, Harry Hart,” Eggsy scoffed, “probably fake from the sounds of it”

Roxy furrows her brow, “but what’s his code name?”

Eggsy looks as flabbergasted as she had.

Roxy rolls her eyes and Eggsy thinks that’s not fair at all, she knows he came into this with no fucking knowledge what-so-ever about what he’s gotten himself into, how is he supposed to know what she’s talking about?

“My uncle’s name isn’t Percival,” Roxy says as if to a particularly dull child, “that’s his code name, all the knights have them.”

Eggsy gets it, “so Arthur’s not really Arthur then? Wait, this isn’t a bloody round table thing is it?”

They’re passing the front of the track again, the one closest to the fucking mansion, and Merlin’s standing there, looking more at his pad then them. Roxy looks pointedly at Merlin and then back to Eggsy.

Eggsy can’t help snorting, “well, if there’s not a round table at the end of all this I’m quitting.”

Roxy laughs. And the sun’s close enough to up that they decide to race the rest of the way around to the start of the trail, and Eggsy can’t help smiling.

* * *

 

Merlin tells him of Eggsy’s success in their first test, and Harry can’t help his pleased smile. Sometimes it just takes a different sort to solve a problem.

Harry pushes away the thought as it brings Eggsy’s father to mind. The boy very much takes after his father for all they knew each other but for a second, but he’s still unique, still so totally removed from the polite middle class man that first tried for Lancelot’s position that the comparisons end quickly as Eggsy makes his own name.

* * *

 

They meet with their ‘mentors’ once a week. Sometimes a trainee can’t because their mentor is off on assignment. That hasn’t happened to Eggsy yet, and he hopes to god it never does, because he’s growing rather fond of Harry Hart who informed him when asked that he goes by Galahad and tells him with a laugh that they actually sit at a rectangle table—it’s more space efficient.

Eggsy doesn’t know what everyone else does during their little tete-a-tetes but Eggsy gets to eat a meal that doesn’t taste like rations and he basically just complains to Harry for two hours. The man is good about it, takes Eggsy’s attitude in stride and never balks at Eggsy’s choice of language like one of their one-off trainers had in the gym the other day.

And he has these little fucking stories. It started with Eggsy trying to get to know the man that decided to put him through this hell, asking obnoxious question and making fun of his age. It changed to Harry telling him little war stories and Eggsy having to fight with himself over whether they were true or if Harry was just messing with him. It was hard to tell, because Harry just got this little smile whenever he could tell Eggsy was thinking about calling him out, and it didn’t help Eggsy to concentrate at all.

* * *

 

Their meeting are…unconventional. When Harry was with his own mentor so long ago, the meetings were an extension of training, missions with each meal.

That’s not what Eggsy needs. What they do is talk. It’s pleasant, better conversation than he can remember having in a long while. And Eggsy always does something that surprises him. Harry’s growing quite fond of the boy.

It’s another incentive to get back from his mission quick—so to not miss any of their time together.

* * *

 

They get dogs four weeks in. Well, puppies really.

Charlie’s spent the last two weeks taking every damn chance he gets to call Eggsy a chav and get all classist as fuck. It doesn’t bug him much, he’s been getting variations of it since he was little and wandering through the ‘nice’ parts of London. He just puts his accent on a bit thicker around him, uses more slang than he ever has in his bloody life. Plays up what Charlie professes to hate but seems oddly intrigued by. Reminds Eggsy of the private school kids in their crisp uniforms that would always wander over to the outsider to get their drugs instead of an upscale dealer.

So Eggsy picks the bulldog pup, plays up his end of this little act. If Dean could see him now. He was always going off about Eggsy trying to rise about his pace, and here he is, in some posh country house, acting more like he’s from the estates than ever before.

Ends up not being a bulldog, according to Roxy. And apparently it won’t get much bigger, judging by her look. Well. If he gets tossed out, hopefully he’ll get to keep the thing. Daisy would love it.

On his next weekly visit with Harry, he brings along the pug, who’s now called JB and who Eggsy already has a terrible suspicion will be spoiled rotten, even as he tries to be strict. It’s just hard when the little pudge is so cute.

Harry _adores_ JB, picks him up and lets out a pleased little sound when JB licks his nose. Commends Eggsy on his choice and Eggsy doesn’t have the heart to tell him he actually wanted a bulldog.

“Smaller breeds are generally underestimated,” he says, matter of fact, taking a seat and putting JB, who seems pleased as a peach, in his lap.

If Eggsy was pressed, he’d have to say that it’s in this moment he sees Harry as more than just a guy who can fight, or a guy who has money, or a guy who offered him salvation. He sees a man who’s not at all self-conscious about making kissy noises at a puppy, who’s not embarrassed by Eggsy’s lack of knowledge on all things posh and all the little things that set Harry apart come together and Eggsy sees him. Realizes in more than just an abstract way that Harry’s not just offering him an opportunity to turn his life into something he’s be please to call his own, but also a chance to change a system steeped in bias and rooted in bloodlines. 

Through it all, through every meeting they’ve had, Harry’s seen him progress and change, and the way he looks at him… Eggsy’s finally able to identify it. Pride. Harry’s proud of him. Now that he’s aware of it, it makes him flush, feeling embarrassed and antsy, but he can’t help feeling pleased, can’t help wanting to excel to keep that look on Harry’s face, wanting to be good for him.

And then little JB decides to take a piss right on Harry’s lap. Eggsy can’t stop laughing about it until at _least_ a week later.

* * *

 

Finding Professor Arnold is laughably east, but that’s because the man isn’t hiding. He seems generally shocked at Harry’s appearance and demands, and quickly falls to groveling that does nothing for him. Lancelot is dead and this man is the cause. Harry can’t help letting some of his anger out. He may not have been the agent’s soul mate or anything of the like, but they were friends.

And this, finding the person who has the most knowledge about Lancelot’s death, being able to piece it together and avenge his fallen friend—well, that’s more than they usually get in this job and the chance assuages the guilt of leaving Lancelot’s body somewhere in the mountains to rot. Lancelot always hated the cold.

Harry’s demanding answers from the sniveling man when he hears a charge and then—Arnold’s head is gone and he’s left with ringing in his ears. He manages to get out, put in the order for extraction and hope he’s deemed savable before the world goes dark.

* * *

 

Their numbers dwindle, one person every two weeks or so heads home. It’s when there’s eight of them left out of the twelve that they finally deal with guns. Eggsy thought he’d gotten over his qualms about shooting when he was with the Guard. But he still tenses up too much when he pulls the trigger, which could lead to injury, Roxy tells him every damn time he does it.

Roxy’s a great shot, best in their group. No matter what gun Merlin throws at them she knows how to shoot it right through the targets, be they moving, great distance or while running herself.

Roxy shrugs when Eggsy whistles at another hard as shit shot hitting its target, “we went hunting a lot.”

Later that night, Eggsy shows her his scar. She’s seen it before, everyone has with the close quarters they stay in, but now she studies it.

“Know what kind of gun it was?” Eggsy asks.

Roxy gives him an arched eyebrow that looks too much like Merlin and god they’ve been here too long if they’re picking up Merlin’s quirks, “you don’t?”

Eggsy gives half a shrug, “I was a kid.” Leaves it at that.

Roxy rolls her eyes, “I didn’t think getting shot was so easy to forget.”

“Well, do you?” Eggsy ignores

“Some kind of hand gun, obviously. I could tell you for certain if I had the bullet, but I’m guessing you don’t carry it around.”

“Yeah, no.” Eggsy snorts and thinks to himself that he should avoid hand guns as best he can, even as he knows that’s an impossibility.

It’s when he’s headed to his meeting with Harry, JB in tow (much better trained than that first and only meeting he’d brought him too in the beginning, and Eggsy wants to show him off) that Merlin pulls him aside.

“Harry won’t be able to meet with you this week.”

Eggsy nods and tries to keep the disappointment off his face, everyone else has had a week or two where their mentor couldn’t be at the mansion due to missions, it was bound to happen at some point.

“When’s he gonna get back?” Eggsy asks.

Merlin winces—a slight tightening of the skin at his eyes—and Eggsy feels a sliver of ice down his spine.

“Merlin,” he gets out, even as his skin feels like it’s buzzing, “where is he?”

Merlin sighs, gives Eggsy a look like he’s weighing his options, before turning and walking down the hall, motioning for Eggsy to follow.

He’s brought to an infirmary. The walls are white and everything smells like disinfectant, just like a normal hospital. Only difference is all the Kingman ‘K’s embroidered on everything like a trademark.

Harry’s flat on the bed, small cuts on the left of his face, and looking for all the world like he’s sleeping, if sleeping people generally had monitors attached to them and an IV stick in their arm.

Harry’s supposed to be invincible. Eggsy didn’t know how much stock he put into the notion until he’s seeing Harry lying vulnerable and hurt on the bed. Harry is the semi-magical man that came when Eggsy called and whisked him off to a new life where he could actually do good, where he wasn’t constantly failing and could make someone proud. Harry was supposed to be above getting hurt. If the Kingsman medal he’d been given as a child had become his security blanket, Harry had become its embodiment. Even with Merlin trying to off them left and right with tests and trials, Eggsy felt safer here than anywhere else he could remember. Harry being hurt shattered that little bubble and it’s a wakeup call Eggsy doesn’t think he’s ever been ready for.

Eggsy’s hand makes an aborted move to Harry’s, “What happened?” he asks, turning his head towards Merlin but not taking his eyes off Harry.

“He’s in a coma, but our medics are quite sure he’ll make a full recovery, given time,” Merlin says instead.

Eggsy nods unthinkingly, “can I visit him?” he feels like an idiot for asking, “I just—our meeting are mostly me talking at him anyway, so it doesn’t really make a difference, and I have nothing better to do, so—”

Eggsy cuts himself off before he rambles too much, lets too much out, eyes still trained on Harry as his face heats in embarrassment.

“Of course, lad.”

“Right. Yeah. Thanks.” Eggsy clears his throat and finally looks at Merlin, “you’re the gov’ner.”

* * *

 

He’s sleeping. Harry knows he shouldn’t. Knows there’s something he should be doing, something important. A voice flows through his consciousness, far away and indistinct. Harry can’t bring it into focus, but he wants to.

* * *

Eggsy’s never known anyone in a coma before. But if day-time tv taught him anything it’s that talking to them is good. So the first few times he visits, that’s what he does. He wasn’t lying the Merlin—most of the time their sessions really have been Eggsy venting about one rich sod or another, or trying to get Harry to tell him about Merlin with hair (he’d learned that they went to Cambridge together before Kingsman, of course they fucking did), or about some of his ‘youthful dalliances’ as Harry put it.

He hadn’t really noticed before how much Harry chimed in or how integral the faces he made were to Eggsy feeling better about whatever it is Charlie and his lot are trying to pull this week. In other words, it’s boring, talking at the man without response.

So he started bringing his study materials down to Harry’s room—Merlin had them doing actually blood tests like they were first years or something—and he brings Roxy along with him so they could test each other. Neither are quite sure if she’s allowed, Harry not being her mentor and all, but no one yelled at them yet and its quieter here than in the library.

Well, Eggsy got yelled at once, for using Harry as a table for his text book, but that was a onetime thing, and Eggsy couldn’t help grumbling that Harry wasn’t complaining.

One of the best things about having Roxy in the loop about what happened with his mentor is that she could tell when he was working himself up with worry and talk him down. He actually gets to tag along to Roxy’s meeting with her uncle Percival, since Harry’s been out for three weeks now. Percival teaches them how to eat like fancy people. Roxy’s already a pro, and Eggsy knows they’re doing this for his benefit, but they’re nice enough not to point it out.

The food’s good, and Percival, although quieter and so much different from Harry, seems to enjoy Eggsy well enough, and Eggsy can’t help having a good time, despite his guilt at it not being with Harry.

They end the evening with a toast to Harry’s health. Eggsy feels touched and it burns him that he feels that way. So he challenges Roxy and Percival to go shot for shot. Which is a _terrible_ idea, and Roxy looks at him like he’s gone fucking mental. But Percival fills their glasses and raises it in salute and Eggsy can’t help his grin, which widens as Roxy laughs, absolutely delighted at her uncle as she picks up her own glass.

She’s less delighted the next morning when they’re running round the track hungover as fuck, but Eggsy holds her hair back as she pukes in the bushes and reminds her that she won.

Eggsy thinks Merlin decides to do a coordination test that day just to fuck with them.

* * *

Waking hurts. Harry spends an indistinct amount of time just lying there, letting himself catalogue the pain before pushing it away. Then he spends however many minutes it takes to remember exactly how he got here.

Harry’s been taken out of the game in many different ways, but never before by an exploding head.

* * *

When Harry wakes up, Merlin tells him and Eggsy doesn’t even feel bad about leaving team shooting practice when Merlin turns away. Roxy’s still the best of them and she lets him go with a smile, resetting and shooting without need of a spotter. Eggsy’s halfway to Harry’s room before he doubles back and gets JB, all but dragging the dog behind him in his haste. After all this time, JB still isn’t much of a runner.

Harry’s in a deep red robe finishing up shaving, like he just stepped out of the shower instead of a month and a half coma.

“Ever heard of knocking?” Harry asks as he pats the excess shaving cream from his skin.

Eggsy grins, god has he missed this man “only when I'm casing a place to rob. Merlin said you wanted to see me?” so he hadn’t actually said that, but Merlin told Eggsy that Harry was awake, he had to have known that Eggsy’d go to him in a heartbeat at that.

“I hope JB's training is going as well as yours is.” He looks at the pug

Eggsy smiles and turns to JB, “Sit.” And JB, the little angel, does (Eggsy’s still around 50% when it comes to JB following his commands, but fuck it if JB doesn’t come through when it counts).

Harry’s lips quirk, “Impressive.”

Eggsy may preen at that, just a little.

“Congratulations on making it to the final six candidates. Your test results were even better than I could've hoped.”

Eggsy really does preen at that.

“Harry—oh, Eggsy, you’re here.” Merlin says as he strides in and Eggsy can’t help making a face that clearly says ‘duh’, because where the hell else would he be when Harry’s just woken, “I’m afraid you have to leave now—”

“No, let him see,” Harry waves off Merlin’s concerns quite literally, “it’ll be good practice.”

And with little pushback Merlin shows the footage of Dr. Arnold (whoever that is) having his head explode. And then it comes to Richmond Valentine, and Eggsy actually gets to show the two super spies something they don’t know, which he can’t help feeling pleased about.

Merlin and Harry take a moment to talk about Harry leaving to go under cover at a gala Valentine’s hosting, and Eggsy can hardly keep quiet until Merlin’s left.

“Should you really being going out in the field again so soon?” he can’t help asking like a mother worrying a dishrag or something else completely over the top.

Harry quirks a brow, “Medical has already cleared me, and it’s not for another week yet. We have another meeting before I go if I haven’t mixed up my days entirely.”

“Yeah, day after next.” Eggsy supplies, “we better be eating something good, Percy gets stuff that’s too high class for my tastes.”

Harry looks momentarily shocked, “Percy?”

Eggsy nods, “well, you went and got yourself blown up, so I tagged along with Roxy to her mentor meetings. We had snails last week.” He makes an appropriately disgusted face.

“Ah,” Harry says and Eggsy can’t identify the feeling behind it, if there is any.

“I gotta go study for a calculus test if you can believe it—” Eggsy heads for the door before he does something stupid like hug the guy for being okay, “but I’ll see you Wednesday, yeah?”

“Of course Eggsy,” Harry says, like there never was a doubt.

“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Eggsy stops at the door, “I’m glad you’re okay Harry.”

Harry looks shocked for a moment before his eyes go soft, “My dear boy, thank you.”

When he gets back to the bunks, Roxy asks why his face is red.

* * *

Too much to think about. Too many variables. Harry’s glad Eggsy was there, knew of Valentine, even if it didn’t give them an idea of his role in all this it did give them a start. He couldn’t help feeling proud as Eggsy contributed to the mission as easy as anything. And that’s on top of the pride Harry gets from Eggsy still being in the running—and not only that but excelling. Much like his father had before him—though their methods are vastly different.

But unfortunately there’s no time to bask in the feeling, no time to congratulate Eggsy the way he deserves. He’s a Kingsman, and always will be one until he dies and the mission, the world, comes first. No time to recover, no time to wait.

* * *

His last meeting with Harry before the agent goes away on his mission is almost somber. Now that Eggsy’s so aware of Harry’s mortality, it’s all he can think about, and it’s all he can do to get the idea of Harry being killed from his mind.

Harry prompts him along, gets Eggsy to tell him about all that’s happened in his life since Harry went into a coma, but, somehow sensing his protégé’s distress, Harry tells him more about himself than ever before. Talks about his time before Kingsman, and then his early days in it. Gives Eggsy a glimpse into the life of the man he already knows he likes.

When Eggsy leaves that night, it feels a lot like a goodbye. Eggsy ends up hugging him, face burning as he does it, but he can’t help needing to, after all that’s happened and with all that he’s sure will happen in the future.

Harry, bless him, hugs Eggsy back after a short surprised moment, gives him a peck on the head before sending him off.

Eggsy feels the warmth of him through the night, each place they touched seared into his mind.

* * *

Harry can’t remember the last time he touched someone like this—the last time someone touched _him_ like this. With care and worry and heart. It’s breathtaking, to know that someone cares, someone’s waiting for him to come back. Someone will care if he doesn’t.

It almost makes him reluctant to leave and he has no idea how those with soul mates or partners are ever able to do it.

* * *

Harry comes back a-okay from the gala (makes Eggsy feel like a twit for worrying), which is more than Eggsy can say after almost dying jumping out a plane with what he thought was no parachute. But he made it to the top three, and Harry looks at him so proud when they have their meeting that Eggsy can almost ignore the nervous bouncing of his leg, the _I almost lost this_ on repeat in his head.

Harry notices—of fucking course he notices, he’s a damn spy—so instead of talking about what happened or the next test or any of the many things that have Eggsy’s head in a tizzy, Harry teaches him how to knot a tie.

It’s more complicated than it looks, despite Harry making it look so easy. And Eggsy is sure he’s never going to get it, but Harry is patient with him, voice calm and steady as he directs Eggsy through loops and pulls, hands warm against his when Eggsy graduates to the trinity (which Eggsy’s pretty sure is Harry just showing off) and needs to be guided through.

It’s the warmth of Harry’s hands on his that makes him lose the tension he’s been holding ever since he hit the ground, proving that Harry’s alive and that Eggsy’s alive too. That they both exist in this moment together. It causes Eggsy to let out a breath and breathe easier than he has in a long while.

Harry gives him a smile that makes Eggsy think he knows, somehow, everything that’s running through Eggsy’s head. That he understands it all. Eggsy hopes so. Their time together comes to its end quicker than it should. Sometimes Harry will let him stay later, dismiss Merlin’s ‘curfew’ with a smile and a sparkle in his eyes. Eggsy’s torn between wanting it to be one of those nights and wanting to run back to the bunks fast as he can.

“G’night Harry,” Eggsy says from the door. He feels stuck, wanting equally to leave and stay and he doesn’t even know why and it’s throwing him for a loop. Nerves of some sort or other.

Harry looks up from where he’s tidying their tea, “Good night dear boy,” his eyes are warm, “sleep well.”

“Yeah. Right,” Eggsy clears his throat feeling awkward for no reason but his own making, “bye.”

When he gets back to the bunks, which now has Charlie on the far left and Eggsy and Roxy next to one another closest to the door, Roxy looks up from her book before giving a snort.

Eggsy gives her a confused look.

She points with her chin, “thanks for getting all dressed up for me,” she smiles as he looks down at the silk tie knotted around his neck, out of place against the casual clothing he wears whenever he can get away with it. Eggsy blinks, not knowing how he missed it. Then wonders how the hell Harry did.

“Can’t blame me for trying to look nice for such a pretty bird,” Eggsy says back with a smile and an exaggerated wink and Roxy lets out a startled laugh, high and happy.

Charlie mumbles for them to shut it from the other side of the room. They snicker for a moment like school children as they settle in.

Eggsy loosens the tie, careful to keep the knot intact, and hangs it over a bed post.

It doesn’t fix anything, but he does sleep better for it. A dreamcatcher made of silk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> works been busy as all get out, so that's my excuse for taking so long. as always comments are loved :)


	7. Track

He’s lost it. Harry should be focusing all his energies on Valentine; their meeting made it clear enough that if not at the top, the man was very close to it. Instead all he can think on is how Eggsy looks with a focused expression as he attempted knot after knot. How his skin was soft whenever he chanced to touch Eggsy as he instructed. How none of those ‘chance’ touches were left up to chance.

Harry’s completely smitten with the lad—his attitude, his demeanor, his heart. His shy pride at any complement he’s paid. His capability and force of will. Eggsy’s perfect. Absolutely so. And Harry feels like an absolute cur for his desires.

But he cannot dictate his feelings (though he wishes he could with the years of dull pain associated with never meeting his soul mate), and so the best he can do is not act on them. It’s easier to keep that mentality and strength of will when Eggsy’s not around, but Harry’s an international spy, he’ll figure it out. He has to. 

* * *

“A honey pot.” Eggsy says, still with a little bewilderment in his tone, “a proper one. Didn’t think they actually happened outside of Bond movies.”

Roxy rolls her eyes because this is about the fifth time he’s said something to that effect, “right, got it, now does this look good or not?” she gives a little spin in the blue dress, skirt giving a tea-party twirl. It’s pretty, she’s pretty, but it doesn’t scream night club. Or whisper it for that matter.

He doesn’t really know how to word it, but apparently his face is enough, “yeah, it felt a little too country club to me.” She says, stepping back into the changing room.

Charlie, Roxy and Eggsy are at the mall and it feels almost strange to be back in the ‘real world’ after so long holed up in the mansion. God, even just thinking that makes Eggsy feel like a right prick.

“You’re not the type of girl that’s gonna dress like the broads on my street, but maybe a little more—I don’t know, not like you’re worried you’re going to come across your grandma?” Eggsy can all but feel her look through the curtain.

Charlie comes back towards them, a dress draped across his arm. He’s a bit less of a dick without an audience, and didn't protest besides a token scoff when Merlin told them to stick together on this little shopping spree.

“Here,” he passes the dress around the curtain. They wait for Roxy to change into it, and it’s so terribly mundane that Eggsy has to laugh a little. Charlie gives him a look.

“It’s just—” Eggsy makes a hand motion that tries to cover ‘all of it’, “weird, right? The super secret spy organization sends us out to buy new threads so we can score. And we’re here following Rox around like—”

Charlie gives a half smile that still looks condescending, but Eggsy’s pretty sure that’s just his face, “like we’re her personal entourage.”

“Well entourage,” Roxy says, casting the curtain aside, “what do you think?”

Eggsy whistles, the dress is black, tighter fitting than the blue one and with lace accents that covers but also reveals, “gotta say, Charlie did good.”

Charlie crosses his arms, “I just didn’t want to be here all day.”

Roxy and Eggsy snicker at him. Roxy changes, they buy the dress, and they go on their way to Charlie’s store. Charlie’s quick, apparently already knowing what he wanted before he walked into the store.

“Aren’t you going to look around?” Roxy asks as Charlie accosts a sales associate for a particular trouser cut.

Eggsy snorts, “You think I’d shop here? Rox, you’re killing me.”

Roxy laughs, “Yes, what was I thinking.”

Charlie pays without even trying his goods on and then it’s off to Eggsy’s store. Charlie won’t even walk in, and though Roxy does, she looks terribly out of place, especially with the high end labeled bag in her arms. Eggsy loves it though, feels more in his element than he has in that last—fuck, it’s been almost seven months now. he’s been melding into the life of Kingsman as much as he needed to to survive, it almost feels weird to feel that he doesn’t need to act a certain way, or smooth his edges to just have a fighting chance.

He ends up spending the most, jacket and trainers costing an arm and a leg. If he doesn’t win, at least he’ll have some sweet ass threads.

Well, he ends up spending the most until Roxy pulls them over to a lingerie store. Eggsy opts to wait outside with Charlie for this one. Roxy comes out looking pleased and hands them both a small parcel. Eggsy looks in it curiously to see silk pants.

“Whoever wins, our target deserves to unwrap something nice,” Roxy says with a wink. It’s Eggsy’s turn to give a laugh, and though Charlie looks absolutely scandalized, he doesn’t reject them outright.

* * *

Harry always gets nervous for this test. More so now that he admits his affections for his protégé are more than just the friendly sort. Harry doesn’t want to see Eggsy break—the beautiful boy—but he doesn’t want to see him accept his death easily either. Wants to tell Eggsy that his life is worth more than Kingsman, that he won’t be mad, as long as Eggsy’s safe.

Harry’s completely and utterly lost it. 

* * *

If Eggsy’s going to be honest with himself, the scar that is his soul mark? He always thought that’s what would kill him. His soulmate would shoot him and it’d be when he’s bleeding out that he realizes that they’re the one he’s meant for, that he’s meant for this. Death.

So he’s understandably a little pissed (and fucking terrified, that too) to realize that a fucking train is going kill him. The tie he’d forgotten on his neck the night before was really a noose, and he’s the one who tied it. The train is so loud, coming down the track, and Eggsy hopes to god he dies on impact. He thinks about the body bag they’re going to put him in. One without an address or family to inform because he left it blank. No one to mourn him, no one to know.

Eggsy holds his breath.

And then it’s over. The train is passing over him and he’s untouched. Not even a scape. His heart’s pounding so hard is almost hurts and he feels like crying and laughing and curling into a ball and never coming out of it.

“Bloody well done, Eggsy.”

 _Harry_. He’s standing there, looking pleased, a smile on his face and out of all the conflicting feelings, crying is starting to win. He wants to go to Harry and cling to him like a child, be reassured and coddled in a way he never way, not since his dad passed and mum found first the bottle and then Dean.

Eggsy chokes on the words in his throat, is glad for it because he doesn’t know what would have come out.

Harry steps onto the tracks, pulling out a knife and cutting him loose. It’s only with the restraints gone that Eggsy feels how much he strained against them. Can feel them shake, soft tremors that seem to run through him on loop. His eyes track Harry’s moments, perfunctory and utilitarian, but with a fluidity that only few ever master.

Staring at him, looking hard at the man that changed his life forever, doesn’t make it easier to stop from crying. Watching his sure movements and knowing the strength behind his flawless façade makes it harder to hold it together, harder to not let the shaking take over and the crying to start with the earnestness of children, leaning on Harry’s strength and power for comfort and stability. No, what holds him back from making a right tit of himself is Dean’s voice in his head, berating him for crying when Dean hit his mum, yelling at him for being such a bitch when those hands turned on him. Boys don’t cry. You’re weak, you’re worthless. Shut the fuck _up_.

Harry finishes cutting the ropes, a warm hand on his ankle before he stands, extending his hand to help Eggsy up, looking proud and pleased and solid.

Eggsy swallows, throat dry. His eyes sting. His limbs feel strained when he moves them, reaches for Harry with a hand that’s steadier than he thought he could manage. Harry’s envelopes his in warmth and Eggsy fancies he can feel Harry’s heartbeat through the touch, slow and beautiful. Harry pulls him up and they step onto the platform.

Harry lets go of his hand and Eggsy feels cold.

“Want to watch Charlie?”

“Yeah.”

* * *

His elation almost hurts as Eggsy passes with flying colors. When Harry unties him he wants nothing more than to drag Eggsy up into his arms and whisk him away, whisper praise in his ears and help the young man come down from his near death experience. But he cannot, and more so he would not be welcome. So Harry settles for showing Eggsy just how well he’s done with the look of his eyes and the tone of his voice.

* * *

They have twenty four hours together, and it almost feels like a fair trade, almost being run over by a train, if this is what he gets out of it. And seeing Harry’s house, a glimpse into the man beyond Kingsman, well, it’s the only thing keeping him from going straight to sleep. Their ‘honey pot’ assignment had been late at the club, and then almost getting run over by a train happened around two or three in Eggsy’s estimation. By the time they actually got to Harry’s it was well past five in the morning.

After training in the Guard, and then training with Kingsman, getting up early was his thing. He hadn’t stayed up through the night like this (and never through a night like _this_ ) since he was still in school, doing stupid shit with his boys and trying to forget he ever needed to go back to the flat again, fighting to keep his eyes open so he could stay in his bubble a while longer.

It’s not like that, exactly. Eggsy sure as shit wants to stay up—he doesn’t get nearly enough time with Harry as he should, Kingsman rationing their time like there’s a war and Harry’s sugar. But it’s not to avoid what comes after. He doesn’t have to go back to the flat, he gets to stay here, in Harry’s house that’s homey and comfortable and has Harry puttering around like a normal man.

He all but collapses into a chair and promptly gets told off for it—etiquette and gentleman’s way and all that. But there’s a smile in Harry’s voice as he reprimands him, and then he’s making them martinis.

It’s going to put him right out—the only sleep he’s working on is when he was roofie’d for like an hour, and his head feels full of cotton, but Harry’s looking proper as ever, and he’s looking at Eggsy like Eggsy did right by him.

And so he says ‘Yes, Harry’, takes the drink and downs it too fast to block the crest of feeling welling up. Harry laughs as he sputters, which helps nothing, and then goes through great pains to show him not only how to _make_ a proper martini, but how to drink it properly too.

It takes three more for Harry to be satisfied, and at this point, with the sway of his feet as he tries to stand, he thinks Harry might be goading him on just for his own amusement.

“Off to bed with you,” Harry says, and the moment feels soft, like Eggsy imagines home would feel like. Eggsy can see weak light cutting through the drawn blinds.

“Yes, Harry.”

What else is there for him to say?

* * *

It’s poor taste, to delight in the reddening of cheeks and the sleepy open look in Eggsy’s eyes. But Harry can’t stop himself, not with Eggsy so close even as his iron clad force of will makes sure they get no closer. Maybe…maybe after Eggsy wins his title. Then Harry can go to the boy and confess himself in good conscious. Or maybe he can content himself with this, the rational part of himself speaks from behind the glaze of gin, and he won’t ruin what he already has.

It is a nice thought, going to Eggsy after his knighting and asking for a dinner that has nothing to do with their mentor protégé relationship. But a thought it will stay.

* * *

Eggsy wakes up sometime around nine he figures. Much too early for having gone to bed around what might have been six or seven. He feels warm, but with the promise of a headache if he so much as breathes wrong. There’s a water and two pills on the bedside table. He manages to get them, surprised at how the water is still cool, a balm for his throat, without choking or setting off his head. He promptly turns over and goes back to sleep.

He wakes up again—later. It’s weird, there are no clocks in the room he’s in and he’s pretty sure his phone’s in his jacket pocket, which is downstairs. Not having a timepiece would be liberating but for how he knows time’s ticking down for his 24 hours with Harry, and he’s ever intention of making the most of it.

Getting out of bed and marveling at the little pills he took whenever he first woke up because they sure as hell worked, he stretches and walks to the attached bathroom. It make him feel new—the water running over his body, stripping him of the grime of his night and the twisted knot of feelings that came with it.

Can’t spend all day under the spray though, so Eggsy towels off and finds some clothes neatly folded on a chair in the room. He wonders if they’d been there before and he just hadn’t noticed, or if Harry had brought them while he’d been in the shower. They fit perfect, but Eggsy stopped being surprised about Kingsman’s uncomfortable amount of knowledge about him ages ago.

Breakfast…well, it’s the most English of breakfasts he thinks he’s ever had. He eats too much of it, but then, he can’t remember when he had a meal like this last—not just good, but something that’s so obviously homemade that makes it better, somehow, than a five star brunch.

They chat, about anything and everything that’s not related to spy work, and it feels achingly domestic; safe and warm. Harry’s actually not that found of ties, though he wears them all but constantly. And apparently the only reason he has the weird ass bug collection (not that Eggsy called it that) still, is for how much Merlin detests it when he visits and needs to use the loo. For a man who always likes to be watching, Merlin’s not that fond when the eyes turn on him, even by dead insects. Eggsy almost snorts his juice for how that makes him laugh, and Harry lets out a chuckle that calms Eggsy down and keys him up at once.

Twenty four hours isn’t enough. When Harry tells him they’re going back to Kingsman for a treat, Eggsy almost drags his feet, asks if they can stay here longer. Forget Kingsman, if only for a little bit, and just stay here, where they can laugh and smile and it all flows like water.

But. He’s never had the luxury of time and that hasn’t changed. So he stands and they make their way to Kingsman. Instead of going in the back and down the lift to the tube, Harry introduces him to the bloke that mans the shop—a Mister Edward Christin.

“Edward will get you squared away.” Harry says with a nod and a smile.

“Say what now?”

Harry’s smile twitches into a grin, “you’re getting yourself a Kingman suit, my dear boy, bullet proofing and all. If you don’t pass the final test—and I have every faith that you will—then at least you get a good souvenir.”

Eggsy looks at Harry. Thinks of walking down his street in a suit like Harry’s and can’t help laughing, “I better fucking get it then.”

Edward shuffles him into a dressing room and gets to measuring every damn inch of him. It’s a good thing that Harry already gave Edward a green flag, because if someone else tried getting all up on him like this, they’d be flattened. By the end, Eggsy still feels a bit violated, and wishes that Harry had done the measuring instead, at least then it would be someone he’s comfortable with.

When Harry shows him dressing room three, Eggsy feels a bit like a kid in a candy store, and he can’t even feel bad about Harry calling him out on trying to swipe a lighter grenade—actually feels a little pleased that Harry noticed, or at least knew him well enough to know he’d try.

He doesn’t expect to walk out and run into Richmond Valentine, and from the look on Harry’s face, he doesn’t either. But there he is, assistant (bodyguard?) a step behind and to the left. Strange that Eggsy’d fallen into the same position with Harry, only breaking it to shake Valentine’s hand when addressed and give a nod.

Harry’s tense as all get out, it rolls off him and waves and Eggsy’s lost in a lurch, unsure of how to act or what to do when he’s so aware he’s only getting a small fraction of the conversation that’s happening behind the words.

When Valentine and the woman are out of sight, following Edward towards a dressing room, Harry’s face falls into the frown he was keeping at bay while he had an audience. Eggsy hates that somethings wrong, but that Harry feels comfortable showing him that things aren’t alright means a lot.

“Excuse me Eggsy, but our time together has to be cut short,” Harry says, not looking at him, eyes still fixated on where Valentine went, “please make your way back to the mansion.” And then he’s walking away, brisk pace leaving no room for argument, comment, or anything really.

Eggsy takes it back, Harry was emoting not because he felt safe to, but because he basically forgot that Eggsy’s there, at least in the ways that matter.

“Yeah, sure bruv, no problem.” Eggsy mutters under his breath to the empty space, “sounds like a fucking grand idea.”

The tube ride back to the mansion seems longer than normal. And his sleep that night is fitful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reading y'alls comments got me pumped so i got this done quicker than i thought i would--thanks!


	8. Bang

He’s definitely losing himself. Striking too fast with word and becoming irritable at the merest interest Valentine shows Eggsy. Valentine should not be here, and least of all should he be interacting with Eggsy in any way. Harry has to get away, he needs to focus—so he sends Eggsy to the safest place he knows and strolls off with the mind of a man distracted.

* * *

Today’s the day, his final test. It really doesn’t settle his nerves when Merlin tells him that Arthur wants to see him. The walk to Arthur’s office makes Eggsy feel very aware of his class. It’s like the closer he gets, the more gilded the halls are. It’s probably just in his head.

“Merlin said you wanted to see me, Sir?”

Arthur looks up from the hearth, then at JB.

Eggsy’s learned a thing or two, from his time at Kingsman, and not least of all how to interpret the whims of the upper class who don’t seem keen on wanting to explain for desire to berate.

“Sit.” He says to JB, and the little dog plops down just as he’s been told. Eggsy tries to keep his preening internal—JB wasn’t the easiest to train (not that Eggsy had any experience training a dog before), but he really knew when to back Eggsy up.

Arthur gives a thin lipped smile, “Pretty dog. What's his name?”

“JB”

“As in ‘James Bond’?” Arthur asks, and Eggsy gets pleasure in being able to say no.

“’Jason Bourne’?” he tries again.

“No,” Eggsy gives a little shake of his head, “’Jack Bauer’.”

“Oh!” Arthur gives a little laugh, “Bravo. It pains me to admit it...but I think that one day, you might be as good a spy as any of them.”

Eggsy can’t fail to notice he doesn’t include himself in that assessment.

“Take it.” he holds out a gun and Eggsy takes it, the familiar weight in him hand discomforting for their surroundings—the posh study isn’t the place for guns—“Shoot the dog.”

Eggsy’s eyes go wide and he can’t help looking down at JB, sitting there, panting like he constantly does, looking up at Eggsy with his puppy-dog eyes. He doesn’t raise the gun.

“This weapon is live.” Arthur continues, monotone but demanding “Shoot the dog.”

Eggsy feels his arm raise, watches as the gun lines up with JB. He can’t do this, how the hell could they ask him to do this? Eggsy stares at the gun. And then he’s turning it, twisting it to face himself, pointing right at his scar, lining up perfect. Might as well make it real.

There’s a bang and Eggsy startles, comes out of wherever he was for that moment, and sees it wasn’t himself the gun was turned on, but Arthur.

“Give me the gun.” The man scowls, “At least the girl's got balls.” Eggsy hands it over, arms feeling limp.

“Get out. I knew you couldn't make it.”

Eggsy leaves almost numb. Goes to the kennel and puts JB in his on auto-pilot, even as the last place he wants to leave the dog is here. JB goes easily, not understanding that Eggsy held a fucking _gun_ to his head. That Eggsy almost killed him.

Eggsy feels it well up in him, the anger. Who—who makes people raise dogs and then kill them as some, some fucking test of loyalty? That’s not what he fucking signed up for. He’s had enough of being on the side of the defenseless, enough of being hurt that he wants no fucking part of it. If Roxy could do it, then good for her, she deserves the shit gig.

Stealing the car is easy as fuck. Thank god for it, because a ride in the tube would have been his end. It’s good to have the petal underfoot, being able to speed down the road, to be in _motion_ , to keep going and going until what just happened, what he just lost, gets left behind and he never has to face it, never has to acknowledge that he’s done, that he let Harry down, and that he’d finally found something he was good at and lost it because a prick had it out for him (like fucking always) and because they wanted the impossible from him.

The breaks screech when he throws them outside of the estates, and he’s out the car and up the steps with the muscle memory that makes it feel like he’s never left. Which in turn makes him want to fucking break down.

“Mum!” he yells, walking in, and it’s all so depressingly identical to what he left he can _feel_ himself losing Kingsman in another way, like it was a fantastical dream, but never any kind of tangible reality. Now it might as well be.

“Eggsy!” Michelle comes from around the corner, “where have you been? I’ve been so worried!”

Eggsy’d answer, but the sight of little Daisy catches him fast. He’s been away in some pocket of reality where time seemed to flow different, and everything here looks stagnant, stuck, but not Daisy. She’s so big. Got hair and standing in her pen. Looks like a proper little toddler. He missed this.

“Look how big you’ve grown!” it hurts his heart to acknowledge it, clenches it tight, but makes him smile all the same at her growing up. And then he turns and sees his mum. And his heart clenches for a totally different reason, and it’s like ice in his veins.

“I shoulda never left, I shoulda—where is he?” Eggsy cups her cheek, looks at the nasty bruise and wonders how many others she got while he was away playing at spies.

“I’m fine,” she turns from his touch, “Eggsy, please don’t get involved.”

All this—all this life he’s wasted at a pipe dream, at thinking he was worth something, could be good at something. He can make it all worth it, in this moment, “this ends now.”

* * *

 

Harry hears the news at his home, skimming through files and looking for something he’s missed. But the moment Merlin tells him—about the test and the car—his concentration is shot and he curses Eggsy for that too but mostly he curses the young man for still being soft, still caring. Eggsy’s got too much of all of…that to every make his affections viable.

Harry’s lost Eggsy as an agent, as a protégé, and as the idea of something more in one fell swoop. It hurts. But what hurts most is that now Eggsy’s got no tie to Kingsman. He can’t help him the way he wants, can’t provide for him as he wishes now that Eggsy’s cut off. The feeling of helplessness surges up and turns into anger easy as anything.

* * *

 

Of course Dean’s at the Black fucking Prince.

“Can we have a chat about my mum’s eye?”

Dean snorts, “you get out of that cab and I’ll knock you right on your ass.”

Eggsy lets the anger simmer instead of lasting out, gets stronger for it, “tell your lot to go in and I will.”

Dean looks amused, and motions them away, “go on lads, it’ll be two hits, me hitting him and him hitting the floor.”

Eggsy wonders if that’s how he looked when he hit his mum, amused. Eggsy wants to take a broken bottle to him, tear him apart and make his soulmark a scar, just like Eggsy’s. He’s reaching for the handle when the window starts going up.

“No!” the doors locked, Eggsy tries the other, “no, no, no, no, no!”

Dean’s taunting him out on the street, but Eggsy can’t do a damn thing because of fucking course Kingsman would take this away from him too.

“He fucking hit my mum!” Eggsy yells to the inside of the cab. The damn thing just keeps driving and Eggsy barely controls the urge to hit it, kick at it like a child. He’ll save his anger for whoever’s at the end of this joyride.

It’s Harry. And it’s hard to hold onto his anger, especially when Harry looks furious. It’s a look he’s too familiar with, having got it from almost every authority figure in his life, but it’s not the same, coming from Harry. There’s disappointment woven into it, and that’s what really hurts. It’s not Eggsy’s fault that Harry put his faith in the wrong person, not his fault that Harry saw Eggsy and thought he was worth something, saw him as just Eggsy and still decided to place his bet on him. But it is Eggsy fault for wanting to make Harry proud.

If there was any hope, any hope at all that Harry won’t abandon him, now that there’s no way he’ll be a Kingsman, well, it’s gone now.

“You throw away...” Harry takes a breath, as if he can’t even talk through his anger, and honestly it’s scary, “your biggest opportunity over a fucking dog. And then you humiliate me by stealing my boss's car.”

But Eggsy has never been one to stay down when he should, even before all this fancy Kingsman training: “You shot a dog just to get a fucking job.” He spits.

“Yes, I did. And Mr. Pickle here reminds me of that every time I take a shit!” he gestures to the front loo, where there sits a terrier on a pedestal, surrounded by all those fucking creepy bugs.

“You shot your dog and had it stuffed?” There’s no feigning his disgust, “You fucking freak.”

“No, I shot my dog and then I brought him home and continued to care for him for the next 11 years until he died of pancreatitis.” Harry spits back and Eggsy freezes. His anger, his weaponized hurt and fear pushed out as volatile lashings, is the only thing keeping him going through this fight with Harry. And Harry just took away his last defense with no regard.

“What?” it comes out softer than he wants.

“It was a blank, Eggsy.” Harry sighs and he looks so tired in that moment, “It was a fucking blank. Remember Amelia?”

“Y-yeah.”

“She didn't almost drown. She works in our tech department in Berlin. She's fine. Limits must be tested...” and he continues as if reading off a script so engrained it’s etched into his bones, “a Kingsman only condones the risking of a life to save another.”

No. Eggsy’s not buying it. What he went through, Arthur sitting in his parlor chair and telling him to kill the dog like a lord would order the death of men for amusement—that was not to save another’s life. That was purely to satisfy the lust of men with power, for them to see how much they could demand until their servants broke and could be discarded. And then they’d get a new one.

“Like my dad saved your life even though your fuck-up cost his.” His anger is back, because it doesn’t matter what Harry says, that test served as nothing more than to see if candidates are blind in their faith, unwilling to question or hesitate and take lives without consideration, “or have you got him stuffed here and all?”

Harry looms over him, and Eggsy is forcibly reminded that yes, this is the man he looks up to, who saved him and who he could love so easily it hurts, but this is also the man that can hurt someone easier than breathing.

“Can't you see that everything I've done has been about trying to repay him?”

And he doesn’t even need to use his fists to do it.

The blood rushing through his head, it’s so loud he can’t even hear what Harry’s saying to who must be Merlin in his ear. He feels dizzy. He feels stupid. Of course it wasn’t about him, it’s not _him_ Harry saw potential in, it’s not _him_ that Harry gave a change to, and it’s not _him_ that Harry believed in, could be proud of. It was Lee’s son. It wasn’t ever him. Except, of course, when he let Harry down in spectacular fashion, that was all Eggsy.

He should be used to this now, breaking apart with no one to hold the pieces.

It bubbles up in his throat, forces it’s way out, and he wonders if it’s Lee’s son talking now or Eggsy “Harry, I’m so sorry, I’ll do anything—”

“You should be,” Harry snaps, and Eggsy feels himself shatter a bit more, “you stay right there and I’ll sort this mess out when I get back.” His words are clipped. Final.

He doesn’t even look at Eggsy as he leaves.

_I’m the mess_ Eggsy thinks, because it’s true. He’s fucked up everything, by letting Harry down, but more by thinking that it was _him_ that was worthy when all along it’d been a dead man’s son, a kid who died along with his father. Dean was right about him reaching outside his lot in life.

Eggsy touches his scar, his soul mark. Maybe sorting things out means Harry’ll shoot him, tie up loose ends that are nothing but a disgrace. As long as it’s Harry, it might not be too bad.

Eggsy doesn’t leave Harry’s house. He knows he should go find Dean, give him a proper fuck up before he heads back to the flat and Eggsy’s mum, but—if he leaves here, he’s never coming back. Eggsy’s well aware of what happens to things that disappoint and lose their usefulness, and Eggsy’s not going to throw himself in the trash. Harrys’ the one who brought him into all this, so the least he can fucking do is his own dirty work.

He’s not just going to sit around though like a dog waiting for its master. Getting into Harry’s computer is laughably easy, and he’d tease the man about it if things were different. There isn’t any retinal scanner or finger print identification. It’s a regular old keyed in password. And Harry’s password is ‘Mr. Pickles’. Doesn’t super spy Harry Hart know that a pets name is one of the most commonly used passwords? He’ll have to mention it when he’s being shown the door.

Doesn’t matter. Eggsy looks through the files that are open on the screen. One of them is his—his photo from basic staring him in the face and Eggsy almost feels sick from it. He closes that one. Not like Harry’s going to need it anymore.

The others are more what he’s looking for. Notes are up about a church—South Glade Mission Church—in Kentucky. That must be where Harry’s going. God, it’s a good thing he got on the computer, Eggsy doesn’t know what he’d do if Harry’s told him to stay here and then didn’t come back for _at least_ 16 hours. And that’s if he got to Kentucky and turned right around.

The eight and a half or so hour flight gives Eggsy enough time to get into the video feed from Harry’s glasses at least. Okay, so the first hour is enough for him to open and bring it up on the screen. It’s boring as shit in all honesty, watching the plane walls through Harry’s eyes.

Now that he’s in it though, all he’s got to do is wait. This forced down time isn’t sitting well at all. Eggsy doesn’t know _what_ in the world he feels from all of what today has been, and it’s only nine for Christ sake. Getting up at five for so long really makes the days seem longer.

As the day slowly passes, Eggsy makes a concentrated effort to not _think._ He lost his chance at Kingsman through a rigged fucking game if he has any say about it. He got in a fight with Harry that boiled down to Eggsy fucking up, letting Harry down. And Harry admitting the only reason he’s even here is because he’s Lee’s son, not anything of Eggsy’s own doing. It’s easier said than done, not thinking about it all.

So Eggsy thinks about something he hasn’t let himself think about before, something he actively avoids thinking about a lot better than this. Soul Marks. Not his, his burns at the thought of love, of companionship, of someone seeing behind all the ugly scaring of his soul and seeing _him_.

He thought he had that with Harry, thought Harry was seeing Eggsy and no one else. God how _stupid_ of him. Everyone sees what they want to see of him. Arthur sees the low class, poorly bred fuck up who’s ruining his elite country club of a spy organization. Charlie sees a chav. Merlin sees a kid with too much to prove. Roxy sees the person he is at Kingsman, a facet of himself but not totally him either. Mum sees the little kid he was before—everything. Dean sees another runner.

Eggsy—he sees a scar. It’s poetic or some shit, but his soul mark is right, he’s been hurt and he’s healed as best he can but there’s always the lingering after affects, always a reminder.

Eggsy should eat. He’s hungry, and he didn’t exactly get breakfast before going to Arthur’s and—everything happening. Helps himself to some left overs in the fridge. Makes sure to put the containers back in different spots then where he got them. It’s pathetic, but he needs to leave a mark, needs to prove, if only to himself, that he is here.

The food tastes like ash. His throat’s too dry. Eggsy eyes the liqueur cabinet that Harry had gone to for their martini ingredients just yesterday in the early morning hours. No, not yet. He’ll need it later, he’s sure.

On hour four of being in this fucking house that felt so comfortable the other day but now makes Eggsy want to crawl out of his fucking skin, he thinks he should go to his mum. Leave this place—Harry can track him down easy enough if he really wants to tell him off in person—and actually be out there helping his mum against the fucker that is Dean.

He goes to the door six separate times in thirty minutes. Puts his hand on the handle four of those times. Turns the knob twice. He never opens the door. And it’s not just because Mr. Pickles is glaring at him from the loo.

He can’t shake the feeling that if he leaves, he really will never be able to come back. Never get to see Harry again. Be banished back to his life in the estates where the best thing he can be is a deadbeat, and Kingsman and everything he thought he could be would dissolve into a cruel dream.

Eggsy moves back into the study, flops into the desk chair in a way he knows Harry would tut about in that fond, exasperated way, like when Eggsy had pulled that joke in the armory, it brings a small smile to his face, god, it feels like that was ages ago instead of less than twenty four hours. Eggsy’s smile falls. Harry won’t act fond towards him now. He can’t even think what Harry would do about him disregarding his idea of manners when he’s still so pissed at Eggsy for not shooting JB.

Eggsy wishes JB was here. The pup is a good distraction, and playing with him (when he’s not napping that is) is fun in that innocent way that pushes away all his problems. Eggsy’d left him at Kingsman when he left in the stolen car, knowing unconsciously that he was going to go and do something stupid. Eggsy always went and did stupid shit after something like this. He’s always making bad impulse decisions, hell that’s what got him here in the first place—swiping Poodles keys and taking Ryan and Jamal on a joy ride with him only to end up with his ass half way in a cell.

The clock keeps ticking, but each second takes longer than the last. Eggsy can’t stop his foot from bouncing, from checking the screen every other damn second only to see the same two things—either the wall across from Harry on the Kingsman jet, or one of many dossiers on the church and Valentine and his assistant—Gazelle.

Eggsy doesn’t know how Harry can stand it, how long it’s taking for him to get where he needs to go. The way he just _left_ Eggsy here doesn’t exactly give the impression of a leisurely visit. it’s at 4:45pm, when Eggsy’s really thinking about taking a nap for want of nothing better to do, when the view on the screen changes.

Harry stands up, walks down the corridor of the plane, and stops in front of a mirror, showing Eggsy his face for the first time since Harry walked out almost eight hours ago. God, Eggsy _yearns_. Harry looks as calm and composed as he always does but—and maybe Eggsy’s seeing what he expects to here, but still—he looks colder, steelier. Like he’s still angry at Eggsy and he knows, somehow that Eggsy’s watching. Hell, for all Eggsy knows, he could know, there could be some way to know from the glasses. Eggsy looks for a sign, for some indicator that Harry knows he’s watching, that Eggsy’s waiting here like Harry told him to. But all Harry does is fix his tie (a Windsor knot, he was paying attention, how could he now when Harry was so patient with him, slowly guiding his hands through the twists and pulls until it was perfect) and turn away.

The plane lands. Harry gets off with a wave to a Kingsman pilot that Eggsy doesn’t know. He’s surprised that Merlin didn’t go, but he figures Merlin’s more of a behind the scenes kind of guy. It’s disjointing, watching through Harry’s eyes, seeing him step out into the hot sun and almost feeling him descend the steps.

He rents a car of all things, Eggsy can’t help wondering where the cabs are, and rolls up to the church. Eggsy can hear voices inside before Harry even enters and it’s the first time he’s hearing audio from Harry’s feed.

Harry finds himself in a row midway up as the parishioners nod their agreement with everything the preacher says—despite how discriminatory.  (Or because of how discriminatory it is, and that thought leaves a bad taste in Eggsy’s mouth.)

“I don’t see Valentine anywhere,” Harry says, and for how clear it comes in over the computer speakers, it feels like Harry’s speaking directly to him.

“I coulda told you that, bruv” Eggsy says to the empty room, wincing at the preacher’s derogatory slurs.

“Excuse me,” Harry says to the woman to his right, moving to get up and leave.

“Where d’ya think you’re goin’?” She snarls with a malice that actually shocks Eggsy.

Harry’s reply does much the same, but for different reasons; “I'm a Catholic whore currently enjoying congress out of wedlock with my black, Jewish boyfriend who works in a military abortion clinic. So, hail Satan and have a lovely afternoon, madam.”

Eggsy lets out a laugh, “still ending on a polite note, of fucking course you are, Harry.”

Harry goes for the doors, the woman behind him shouting hate to his back. Harry’s not three meters from the door when he stops and slowly turns to face the woman, who’d come down the aisle after him.

Eggsy doesn’t expect it at all, has no warning what-so-ever. One moment Harry’s looking at the woman, the next his hand is coming into frame with a gun in it that he fires at her with absolutely no hesitation.

“Holy fuck!” Eggsy can’t help yelling, eyes going wide as he leans closer to the screen. Everything’s moving so fast—because _Harry_ is—but he can see enough. The church drops into chaos. It’s like Harry’s shot set off everyone and now they’re all attacking one another like, like madmen. Harry—god the way he moves would be a thing of beauty in other settings, but this? Being part of an uncontrolled bout of violence for no reason other than violence’s sake? It’s insane!

And Eggsy hasn’t known Harry all that long, and doesn’t profess to know everything about him, but he knows enough. Knows enough that this as it’s laid out before him can’t be right. When Eggsy had insinuated that Harry blew up Dr. Arnold’s head, the aghast and hurt look on his face showed Eggsy all he needed to know about Harry’s thoughts on excessive violence. And this can certainly be classified as excessive.

It takes only ten minutes, if that, but it feels a whole lot longer before Harry’s glasses scan the room and Eggsy can see that he’s the only one left standing. He must straighten up, because the view point rises, and then Harry’s again walking to the door. This time though, his gate is less sure, there’s hair falling in front of one of the lenses, and, most strikingly, there’s no one yelling after him. Silent but for the sound of his own harsh breath.

When he steps out into the high sun, Valentine’s there with Gazelle and two other men. Eggsy can feel himself tense all over at seeing them, knows that whatever they want with Harry can’t be good.

“What did you do to me?” Harry all but accuses, voice rough, “I had no control. I killed all those people.” And then the last part, as if it’s dragged out of him: “I wanted to.”

Valentine smiles, wide and bright and it makes him looks sweet, “Clever, isn't it?” and then he talks about them, the SIM cards and their trigger and what they can _do._ And Eggsy feels the horror of it all slowly travel up his arms, making the hair stand on the back of his neck before settling like ice against his thoughts. Everyone’s getting them, the SIM cards. Especially people from around his neighborhood, where people don’t really have the money for the phone they’re paying for.

The SIM cards seemed like a golden opportunity, and Eggsy had thought it amazing and commendable that finally someone was helping to better the living conditions of everyone, everywhere. Opening opportunities to those who otherwise wouldn’t have them. But all this time he planned to… Valentine’s no different than Arthur—thinking the poor are easy targets, are expendable. He should have fucking known better.

“It's like those old movies we both love. Now, I'm going to tell you my whole plan...” Valentine says, “and then I'm going to come up with some absurd and convoluted way to kill you and you'll find an equally convoluted way to escape.”

Harry smirks, Eggsy just knows it “Sounds good to me.”

“Well, this ain't that kind of movie.” And then a gun’s raised, right at Harry and Valentine pulls the trigger. It lets out a terribly loud bang, but what’s defining is the thud before the video feed cuts out.

“ _No_!” Eggsy hears himself screen. “No!”

Eggsy stands up, shoves the chair back and doesn’t hear it clatter to the ground. He killed him. Valentine shot Harry just like that, right in the head in cold blood like it was fucking nothing, like Harry didn’t still have thing to do, to sort out when he got back, because he was supposed to come back damnit! Eggsy feels his soul mark throb. Why does it always have to be guns?

His hands are shaking. He’s breathing too fast. It feels colder, and he’s suddenly aware of how it’s getting darker in the house, going on 7:30pm. It’s like the house itself know that Harry’s never coming back.

Eggsy scrambles away from the desk, hits a light and goes straight for the liqueur cabinet. Pulls out a glass decanter, pours himself three fingers and drinks two like they’re water.

His eyes catch the door. Downing the last of his drink, Eggsy goes for it. And it’s easier now, now that he knows there’s no one to wait for. That the person who said they’d come back won’t. Ever. The cab that he took this morning’s still there, sitting in front of Harry’s house thank god, because Eggsy doesn’t have the ability to not be doing something right now, no ability to wait.

He drives to Kingsman faster than he left it earlier and it’s insane, going back there now, but he can’t _not_ , not when Harry’s dead. He won’t survive if he sits here in a dead man’s house and grieves alone. At least at Kingsman he’d be with others who know Harry, others who know what a loss the world just took, even when there’s no proper time to mourn because the world is in danger and that won’t stop just because Eggsy feels like he’s breaking in two.

Eggsy all but crashes through the doors he had walked through with such caution earlier today, “Arthur, Harry's dead.”

“Galahad is dead.” Arthur corrects. But he’s wrong, it’s not Galahad who will be missed, not Galahad who laid down his life and not Galahad that Eggsy will mourn. Galahad is an idea, a title passed down, and Eggsy knows another will be selected to wear that crown again in the future. Harry Hart is a person, and Eggsy’s positive there will only ever be one of him.

“Hence, we have just drunk a toast to him.” Arthur continues, a nod to the bottle on the table.

“Well, then you know what that psycho's doing. How many people around the world have got those SIM cards? Valentine can send his signal to any of them, all of them. If they all go homicidal at the same time then—!” Eggsy gets out in a rush, can feel the jitters slide up his spine as he thinks of his friends and Mum and Daisy.

“Indeed,” Arthur says in a calm, measured tone that just serves to rile Eggsy up for its uncaring lit, “and thanks to Galahad's recordings we have Valentine's confession. The intelligence has been passed on to the relevant authorities. Our work is complete and a most distinguished legacy for our fallen friend, it is, too.”

Eggsy feels the words tear from his throat “And that's it?” that can’t be fucking it.

“Come sit down, boy.” Arthur motions to the chair on his right. Harry’s told him to come and sit before, probably used the same damn words, but the way Arthur says it, Eggsy feels like a dog made to heel and can’t help wondering if Arthur will ask him to shoot himself, to show his loyalty. He wouldn’t be sure it would be a blank.

Arthur goes on about the brandy, about its tradition and significance in the Kingsman legacy, “Galahad was very fond of you.” Arthur says like he’s been forced and Eggsy has to know how Arthur—a man Harry himself had made noise about not being too fond of—came to know of that fondness, “And on this occasion I think it's acceptable for us to bend the rules a little.” He pours them both two finger and sets Eggsy’s cup in front of him.

And that’s when he sees it. The scar. A tiny little thing right behind his ear. Eggsy almost can’t help laughing hysterically in this moment. Here he is, with the man who helped murder Harry, probably about to be killed himself and he knows it because of a fucking scar. His scar—the bullet wound—comes to his awareness and he wants to laugh again, at how it’s not only his soul, but his life, that revolves around scars.

_Think fast, think fast_ , Eggsy leans over the table, jerks up at the portraits across from him with his chin, “Are these all Kingsmen?”

Arthur looks, almost startled by the change in direction, giving Eggsy the chance he needs, “Yes, they're founder members,” but he recovers well, “I want you to join me in a toast. To Galahad.”

“To Galahad.” Eggsy murmurs, leaning back, and the brandy, however old and however good it’s supposed to be—tastes like shit. And he knows he’s getting the one without any additives. Eggsy couldn’t really say what he says next, or what Arthur says back to him. Can’t really hear above the rush of blood through his ears. The certainty that the man in front of him will die. The knowledge that it won’t be enough.

Arthur pulls out the poison pen, brandishes it like a secret weapon. When Eggsy says he already knows what it is, says that Harry showed him, he doesn’t get the scowl he wants, but Arthur’s eyes harden, just a little bit. Arthur certainly didn’t care for Harry’s fondness towards Eggsy.

The story of Arthur’s conversion to Valentine’s side—it’s shite and it’s so terribly up Arthur’s alley with the elitism and the classism and the desire for worthy bloodlines only, that Eggsy can’t even be surprised, honestly is more taken aback by how he didn’t realize it sooner, know that Arthur’s dislike of the low class kid wasn’t the regular garden variety classism and bias he experiences all the time, but instead something malicious and actionable. The only thing that surprises him about it is that Arthur would team up with a black man—men like him usually don’t limit themselves to only one kind of bias.

“In Harry's honor,” Arthur says and Eggsy feels sick, hearing this sort of man even utter Harry’s name, give false platitude and gestures towards Harry’s death as if he ever fucking cared, “I am inviting you to be part of a new world. It's time to make your decision.”

Eggsy wants to say _how dare you_. He wants to say _fuck you_ and _never_ and _you don’t get to use him, you don’t’ get to use Harry against me like this_.

He says “I'd rather be with Harry, thanks.” And that’s enough.

“So be it.” Arthur pushes down the pen’s lever and it’s a quiet moment before it starts. Arthur starts with a gasp. Then a cough. Then he’s got blood at the corner of his mouth and the coughing getting worse. Eggsy watches. It’s almost fascinating, seeing Arthur for what he is, a frail old man.

“You dirty little fucking...prick.”

And then he’s dead. Just like that. It doesn’t make Harry come back, doesn’t make the loss of him any easier to bare, but it does give Eggsy a feeling of satisfaction. So does digging out the chip from Arthur’s head with the pen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading and as always, please comment :)


	9. Ache

Harry’s life never flashes before his eyes, no matter how often he’s in near death situations. But with a gun pointed at his head and the hot Kansas sun on his back, he thinks of Eggsy in his home, of his face distraught and begging for his forgiveness. Thinks of how he spurned the boy, so sure he’d come back, so sure he’d get the chance to say everything.

Eggsy comes to mind and then there’s a bang and then there’s nothing but black.

* * *

 

Flying to Valentine’s bunker in the mountains makes Eggsy think again how impossible Harry was being, so calm on his flight to Kentucky. It takes so _long_ and Eggsy _knows_ what they need to do is going to save the fucking world, there is literally no time for this. He’s pacing the plane and willing them to go faster but it’s just not working.

“Calm down Eggsy.” Roxy says and Eggsy about goes off on her because honestly that’s the type of day he’s having—when he actually looks at her. Her leg’s bouncing, though he doesn’t think she notices. Her eyes look tight and her mouth is set in a thin line. She’s telling him to calm, but she’s not calm either, he’s just outward about it while she’s sitting there still as she can be, internalizing it all.

“…Yeah, yeah, okay.” Eggsy takes the seat next to her. Grabs her hand. They look at each other, afraid and worried, and muster up smiles. They stay like that, hands clasped, for the rest of the flight. Once Roxy’s been dropped off and Eggsy’s given her rushed instructions to call his mum— _please_ —they’re in the air again and arriving at Valentine’s bunker not long after.

He notices, near the beginning of it, that he’s showing off. The way he orders his drink, the posh of his tongue and the practiced suave. But then he remembers that the person he most wants to see him in this moment—to see him capable and _doing good_ —won’t ever. Everything shifts in that moment and his task is just what it is.

Honestly, so much of it happens in a rush of bullets and not-enough-time-go- _faster_ all with the ache of Harry’s loss and the weight of the world on his shoulders. He doesn’t enjoy it really, not with the stakes this high, but there is a rush that comes with knowing you’re avoiding death by the skin of your teeth that can’t be avoided.

There’re so many bullets, and Eggsy doesn’t have time to be distracted by them, doesn’t have the luxury to react more than shaking it off when they hit him—actually _hit him_ —on his bullet proof suit. No time to wonder if fate knew about this suit too (Merlin had told him that candidates don’t get suits, not usually, and it was a stroke of god-damned luck that Harry had bent the rules for him in having it made), if the bullets that hit and leave only bruises behind are supposed to tear into him, end with him lying prone and bleeding waiting for whoever is his soulmate to finish the job. But he has the suit, and if fate has it wrong he can’t be sorry for it, because he has a chance, a chance to save everyone, and it’s better than getting shot through by a whole hell of a lot.

Fighting Gazelle—that he actually enjoys, as much as one can. There’s a vindictive pleasure that comes with going against the woman who watched Harry die, who looked pleased and unruffled as Valentine pulled the trigger and Eggsy’s world fell apart. She’s good, and if it had been even two months ago she would have already skewered him. As it is now, they’re at a stale mate, until, of course, she cuts his tie. A tie that Harry himself had picked out to go with the suit that Harry himself had commissioned for Eggsy. Already his mementos of Harry are being snatched away, broken and left for dead, just as the man himself had been.

It’s what he needed, that push that ends up with Gazelle dead and Eggsy hurt but breathing. Gazelle had been fighting for Valentine, but Eggsy had been fighting for Harry, and it’s so much harder to please ghosts.

Killing Valentine, watching him die on Gazelle’s prosthetic leg… Eggsy wished it meant more. Wish it did more than make Eggsy terribly aware of the clawing in his heart. He knows it doesn’t change anything, and honestly, he should be happy that the world is now safe for Valentine’s SIM card, that the violence that affected everyone but Valentine’s chosen is officially over. But…now that the pressure of that is gone, the adrenaline’s petered out, it leaves Eggsy so, so tired. And Harry’s still dead.

He doesn’t have time for tired though. Not when there are cells upon cells filled with what’s left of the famous and rich that had the humanity to not go along with Valentine’s plan. Merlin takes the plane and goes to pick up Roxy, leaving Eggsy to start going through and opening up cells, with their individual pins (“She doesn’t have the supplies to last long in the cold, Eggsy. Besides, you’ll enjoy the gratitude of the Queen or whoever else…” Merlin says as they part ways at the hanger, handing Eggsy a tablet with the pins on it, “at least I hope the Queen is here.”).

It leaves Eggsy going through and opening door and ending up with the oddest collection of ducklings following him. Many of them asked questions upon their doors opening and with how many asked him in a language other than English makes Eggsy want to branch out and learn another language. Tomorrow though. God he’s so tired.

He answers the first few he can, and through a line of impromptu translators, everyone gets the gist. Valentine is dead, along with him all those that agreed with his plan. The SIM cards were set off, but not for an extended period of time, so the world will definitely need some cleaning up, but it’s not as bad as it could be. Once everyone’s out of their cells, they’ll wait in the hanger and Eggsy will do another sweep for survivors. Then a lot of phone calls will be made, and everyone will be flown to their homes (or what’s left of them).

It’ll be a mess, but luckily, Merlin comes back with Roxy, and things start to go smoothly, or as smoothly as things can when you’ve got so many important people and big personalities in one room. Roxy’s good at going around and telling people the plan, and how long they’ve got still to wait because she –of fucking course—speaks four languages fluently besides English.

There’s nothing really for him to do until the planes start arriving. The calls to majority English speaking countries have been made, and it’s been decided that the Royal family (what’s left of it) and the others who live in the UK that Valentine kidnapped will fly back in the Kingsman jet. There are two people who know how to pilot a plane out of the two hundred or so Valentine dissenters, and they’re bringing the people who live in their countries (Brazil and India) home with one of the many private aircrafts that Valentine’s followers took to the bunker.

Well, those who want the lift that is. A lot of them are (unsurprisingly) a bit warry of strangers and are willing to wait until ‘their people’ come to pick them up, now that they know at least some of their people are alive. Thank god enough of the world is still holding together, or more so that the world is quick at bouncing back, because otherwise there would be no one to call, no one to pick up these very important people, and Eggsy would be stuck here for the rest of his life.

And because Kingsman is the ‘camp counselor’ of the world’s strangest summer camp, it means that they (and the passengers they’re bringing home) have to wait until everyone else gets out okay. Merlin directs planes into the strip over the radio, Eggsy and Roxy are tasked with making sure people get on the right plane and tracking down missing passengers, and then they take off again with every pilot (including Merlin) bitching about the radio towers and how they’re not up, which makes landing a bit of a hardship when they get back to their home ports. Eggsy hopes he doesn’t read about any plane crashes with important personnel in the paper any time soon. It would be such a let-down if after all he and Roxy and Merlin and—Harry—went through to have them die in a mundane (all things considered) way.

It takes a day and a half—thank god so many were willing to share planes (god what an elitist sentence, Eggsy feels sick thinking it), otherwise it would have taken a week if they were lucky—and through that time the three Kingsman agents don’t rest as it’s a constant stream of planes coming in and out and people needing answers and numbers being called. By the time it’s just their plane load left, the three Kingsman are all but dead on their feet.

“Thank god for auto pilot,” Merlin mumbles to himself as he enters the plane, Eggsy taking up the rear, and it’s all Eggsy can do not to break down into hysterical laughter, because theirs might be the plane that crashes with all the important people.

Merlin and Roxy go for the cabin, taking softly about shifts and “…you’re not to touch anything, Lancelot. Just wake me if anything beeps or flashes unnaturally.” And Roxy’s harsh whisper: “how the fuck am I supposed to know what’s natural?”

The Queen—and Eggsy’s not gone enough in exhaustion and pushing his grief away for later, later when he can scream and cry and fall apart without witness, to not recognize how amazing this is—takes the seat that Eggsy had taken for their flight up. Prince Philip sits to her right and takes her hand. The plane is full, not made for this many people, but Eggsy knows there’s not enough of them, that some must have agreed with Valentine. He can’t imagine what that must be like. Eggsy’s certain that no one he loves said yes to Valentine, but it’s easy when you’re not asked.  And he’s glad he doesn’t have to contemplate a world where Jamal or Ryan of his Mum said yes. And Harry—Harry had to have been asked, in some way or another by Arthur…he’s glad that Harry said no in his own way, even if, even if he’s—

Don’t think on it, can’t think on it now, not when he still has to be strong, confident and reassuring to the passengers as they come to terms with who betrayed them, who betrayed the world.

Little Prince George toddled around the plane, playing with everything he can get his hands on, including other guests. It’s good, having a little one aboard in a moment of such solemnity, he gains smiles and compassion effortlessly, and a spark of happiness is what they all need right now. It makes Eggsy wish fiercely that Daisy was with him, that he could assure himself of her and Mum’s safety.

He’d tried her phone on the satellite phone once he’d had a quick minute, but the line was dead. Roxy was quick to assure him that she’d talked with Michelle, told her to get the phone as far away from her as possible, so there’s no way she could have it. And it is a comfort, knowing that her phone being dead actually means more for her safety than if he could have gotten through. But he still needs to see them, make sure with his own eyes that they’re okay. He can’t lose them too, not after Harry.

The plane ride to Valentine’s bunker—Eggsy’d thought that was bad. This; this is so much worse.

There aren’t enough seats on the plane for all the passengers they have—Kingsman made this plane in the vain of other private vehicles, so while it has splendor and class, it’s not meant for many people. Those who don’t have seats are sitting on the floor, or sitting on counters, leaning on walls. Eggsy’s situated himself in a corner, shoved himself in it so he won’t be too jostled if they hit turbulence and tries vainly to keep his eyes open.

It doesn’t work. He falls asleep so hard, he doesn’t remember it, only knows upon waking that he slept at all (not that it feels like he has), and he only wakes up because the plane turns on its final dissent and Eggsy falls out of his corner with a gracelessness he’s all but mastered. Little George laughs at him, and Eggsy can’t find it in him to be embarrassed, instead makes a little face at George that’s got him laughing again.

They land in the queen’s gardens, and Eggsy’s the first down the stairs to help people exit. When the Queen takes his hand for the last few steps, she looks at him hard for a moment, before patting his shoulder and continuing on. Eggsy takes it as an unofficial knighting. Roxy comes down the steps last and Merlin pokes his head out the exit, makes noise about bringing the jet back to headquarters before taking a three day sleep break.

“In fact, I’m putting all of Kingsman on holiday until Monday.” Merlin fiddles with his watch for a moment, “there. I’ve suspended all missions and everyone’s to meet at headquarters on Monday and we’ll deal with this whole mess then. If we’re lucky some of it will have sorted itself out while we nap.”

“Sounds very professional.” Roxy gives a tired smile.

“I thought so too.” Merlin shoots back, “now, do either of you want to rest at headquarters, or will you find your way home?”

“I’ll just go from here—” Roxy gets out.

“—you want me back?” Eggsy gets out in a rush. Roxy and Merlin look at him like he’s an idiot. And yeah, maybe he is, because after everything, it’s been made clear that they’re treating him as a Kingsman, final test be damned, but fuck him for wanting it said aloud, for wondering if they still want him, now that the crisis is over.

Roxy goes soft at the edges, “of course Eggsy, you’re Kingsman as much as I am.”

Merlin too, looks less hard, “consider this your alternate final test, Eggsy, I think we can say with confidence you passed with flying colors.”

“…” Eggsy looks at the ground, he’s going to cry, he’s not going to make it out of this unscathed, “y-yeah, right. Thanks, Gov.”

“Oh Eggsy,” Roxy engulfs him in a hug and Eggsy can’t think of the last time he’s been hugged like this, and the last tenderness he got was from Harry—warm hands on his shoulders, eyes holding the weight of a physical touch. And that’s the biggest thing, isn’t it? After everything he hasn’t really let Harry down, Harry’s faith in him wasn’t misplaced. He wasn’t able to prove his worth to Harry, he won’t ever be able to do that, but he can prove it to the world. He can carry on doing good in the world, for Harry.

* * *

 

He wakes with an IV, a pounding in his head, darkness where his left eye should be seeing and the smell of disinfectant all around. Harry hits a call button, ignores the nurse’s words, as she smiles and tries to tell him what’s going on. He probably knows what’s going on better than she does.

So Harry demands a phone, texts one of Kingsmans many numbers in one of Kingsman’s many codes, and promptly passes back out.

* * *

“Mum?!” Eggsy calls, going into the flat. The door’s unlocked, which sets him on edge. He doesn’t really know what the immediate aftermath from Valentine’s SIM attack was, but getting from where Merlin had dropped them off back to his little slice of London had been an adventure, free running coming very much in handy. There was a lot of property damage, and people were slowly cleaning up what they could, with bandages wrapped around various parts of their bodies.

Most of them were giving him weird looks, and Eggsy wondered if it was because he was without injury. Amazingly, the worst he got from the whole thing was bruises from the bullets. Passing a little girl in a sling whose eyes looked far too old, Eggsy feels guilty for getting off easy, for not stopping Valentine sooner.

Eggsy shakes off the thought. Once he makes sure Mum and Daisy are okay, he can worry about that. For now he has more important things to do.

“Eggsy?” Michelle comes out of her room, “Oh Eggsy!” she gives him a hard hug and Eggsy squeezes back just as much before pulling back enough to look her over for injury. It seems she has the same idea.

“Oh Eggsy—you, you’re okay, aren’t you? Everything just—and a girl called, said she knew you, told me to lock Daisy in the bathroom and—and what are you wearing?”

Eggsy can’t fight his smile—his Mum’s alright. She’s not hurt. And then he looks down at himself, takes a long blink to process, and can’t help doubling over in laughter with more than just an edge of tears.

He’s still in the suit, the once crisp lines in disarray, bits of blood on the collar from when he split his lip. No wonder everyone was giving him weird looks, Eggsy’d even thought about it when Harry took him to get a suit, how strange and out of place he’d look if he wore it through the estates.

“Mum,” Eggsy says when he can speak again, “I got myself a job.”

Daisy coos from her pen, and the baffled look on Michelle’s face leaves for the more immediate concerns, and Eggsy beats her to it, scooping up the girl and cradling her close.

“Hi little flower,” he chokes out. And this time when the tears come, there’s no holding them back. It’s a wild, all consuming relief, and a deep ache, folded together and cresting in his chest. Eggsy curls around Daisy, the little one looking at him with big eyes and sucking on her thumb. When Eggsy starts to sob, Michelle directs him towards the couch, has him sit and sits close next to him, bringing his head down to her shoulder and rubbing his back in soothing circles.

It takes him a long time to come down, to even out. And he suspects it’s because he’s run out of tears more than anything else. He feels empty, warn out and exhausted. Daisy had squirmed from his hold sometime during the second hour and is now fast asleep on the floor, soft even breathes and little sniffles her only sound.

Sitting up, pulling away from his mum is a hardship, as her care in this moment fills the need for motherly affection he thought he’d out grown. But he has to. There is still so much that needs discussing.

“Where’s Dean?” Eggsy rasps out, throat feeling dry and tight.

Michelle gets a pained, worried look, and Eggsy tenses up all over again “He hasn’t come back since—since.”

Eggsy nods. With the company that Dean keeps, it’s not so surprising. He doesn’t know if Dean’s dead or at the hospital, and he doesn’t care, as long as Dean doesn’t come back soon. At least not before Eggsy figures out where they’re going, because they sure as shit aren’t staying here.

“Jamal came around earlier,” Michelle says into the silence, “to check up on us and see if we needed patching and asking after you and Ryan. Thanks to your friend, we were lucky.” She’s quiet for a long moment, “a lotta folks have been committing suicide, since. A lot of people hurting.

“If I’d… if I’d gotten through the door,” she motions with her head towards the bathroom door, which is hacked in the middle, “If I’d gotten to Dais—”

“You didn’t.” Eggsy says sternly, eyes still stuck on the door and wonders how close he had come to losing them, wonders if it had taken him just a few more seconds, if he’d come back to Mum with a pill bottle or a needle in her arm and Daisy—“you didn’t.”

“I—” her voice breaks, “I think it’s my turn to cry now.”

Eggsy feels his heart clench, “yeah Mum, I think it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, reviews are adored, loved, cherished...


	10. Lapse

Harry doesn’t know the state of the world, not in any way that matters. And the staff don’t know it outside of what they’ve been told. They’re not all dead, so that’s good, and from the sounds of it Valentine’s sim cards went off for a little while—that’s also good. It means that laying here and licking his wounds isn’t wasting precious seconds the earth has left. It means that someone stopped Valentine.

It’s that thought that makes waiting bearable.

* * *

 

Eggsy sleeps for the first day. Gets up only to go to the bathroom and shove some food in his mouth before passing out again. Sunday he actually gets out of bed for an extended period of time, even if he does wake up at noon. He calls Merlin before even leaving his room, and doesn’t even mind the angry, sleepy drawl he gets for calling him “before bloody Monday, Eggsy, I made myself clear!” to get some things squared away.

Mum’s making noise about going to Dunnes for some groceries, and the world still feels too violent and restless for him to let her and Daisy go out without him. Stepping out of the flat though, it’s like walking into another world; a world that never saw Valentine’s SIM card destruction.

Mum looks pleased and Eggsy wonders if that’s why she really wanted to get out, “while you were sleeping, cleaning crews have been all over love,” she smile in a way he rarely sees, “the government said it’d repair all property damage and they’ve been at it since. Ours was one of the first neighborhoods they got to and it looks a damn spot nicer than it did before.”

“Got that right,” Eggsy says, looking around, “don’t get too comfortable with it though.” And at Michelle’s questioning look, Eggsy fills her in. Tells her about his new job as a tailor (which she doesn’t believe for a second, but is smart enough not to push about, especially since his ‘tailor’ job is the reason she’s holding Daisy in her arms right now) and the perks that come with it, like housing in a better part of town, away from Dean and all that he represents. A good place to raise Daisy, a good place to be happy.

“Well alright then,” Michelle says, overwhelmed and a hint of wetness in her eyes. Eggsy knows it will be a lot to take in, to adjust to, but that they get to have the chance to is good enough for him at this point.

The next day is Monday, and though Merlin didn’t specify a time to them, Eggsy figures showing up late won’t earn him any points. So he dresses comfortable, because he needs the security of clothes that are entirely and solely him, and makes his way to Kingsman.

When he gets in, Roxy’s the first he spots and the two of them come together, not entirely knowing what to expect or do, but finding strength in each other. Merlin strides past them moments later, purposeful, eyes on his tablet.

“We should have taken a shorter vacation,” he grumbles before stopping and turning back to face the newest Kingsmen, annoyance in the lines of his face, “well?”

Roxy and Eggsy look at each other and then set off. Merlin goes into the room Eggsy had met Arthur in not a week ago, and Eggsy thinks for a second, that they’re going to see Arthur’s body there, laying where Eggsy left him. He’s not. Instead there are men who Eggsy can only assume are Knights sitting around the table. He’s glad to see Percival is there and gets a little smile before Merlin starts.

Merlin stands near the head of it, tutting at the empty chairs, “well, look around, you are the ones either good enough to survive the SIM card induced violence or with enough decency not to want half the world’s population dead, give yourselves a pat on the back.” No one moves.

“Right. So we’re in pure clean-up mode now.” Merlin says, “Whatever mission you were on before, consider it postponed. I will give mission briefings individually after this, we’re lucky cellphones aren’t allowed in Kingsman, so our own support staff and infrastructure is almost untouched. Now, say hello to our newest knights, Lancelot and—” Merlin pauses, “I never asked what name you wanted, Eggsy.”

All eyes are on him and Eggsy shrugs feeling awkward, thinks of Harry, “Galahad then?”

Merlin scowls and Eggsy feels like a tit, “I’m not in the habit of giving away active agents names, Eggsy. That reminds me—we must vote for a new Arthur, and start gathering candidates. We have a lot of positions to fill. We’ll start with Kay”

Eggsy’s frozen. He can feel Roxy turning to look at him, eyes wide, but it isn’t until her hand touches his arm that he finds his voice; “Harry, he’s—h-he’s—”

Merlin looks confused before it turns into pissed, directed at himself, “I sent out the transmission via glasses,” and Eggsy notices that everyone at the table has them, “but you and Lancelot don’t have them yet.” He says needlessly, letting out a breath, calming himself, annoyed at his own mix up, “Yes, Eggsy, Harry is alive, and he’s being brought back to headquarters today.”

Eggsy would have fallen, if Roxy hadn’t been there, holding him up before she could direct him to a chair to collapse it. Eggsy gives one loud laugh, head in his hands, before taking a deep breath, holding it for a five count, and the looking up, knowing his face must already be reddish and eyes wet.

“Right. Yeah, Harry’s alive. Good. That’s—that’s good.”

*

The only thing that lets Harry know he’s on a plane back to Kingsman is the turbulence. They’d sent a medic jet as if he was mortally wounded and not just shot in the head. He’d be pissed about it if his relief at going to the closest thing he called home weren’t so palpable.

*

Merlin doesn’t have a mission for him, “there are plenty, and we may be thinned, but we’re not about throwing new knights into such extenuating circumstances without backup.”

“Roxy—” Eggsy starts, feeling caged and useless.

“Is going to be Percival’s back up. And then she will take point on the next mission and Percival will be her back up. And then she will go out along and I will be her handler. And only after that, once she has completed all those missions successfully, she will be transferred over to another handler full time and take up normal rotation for missions she’s suited for.

“We send out new agents with their mentors because of the bond created during training, and yours isn’t cleared for active duty yet. The only other agent I’d be comfortable sending you out with is Percival, but he can’t take on two new agents. So once Harry gets back, we’re going to have a chat, and depending on how he is, you’ll either be going out with him or another agent after getting to know them. You’ll be on missions within the month, Eggsy, don’t be impatient.”

Eggsy tries to play up the ‘not happy about it but willing to go along with it’ vibe, so his next question doesn’t come across as needy as he know it will, because it’s not missions he’s impatient for, “so Harry’s getting back when?”

Merlin huffs out a laugh, “he’ll be ready to see you tomorrow for tea, alright? He needs a medical evaluation and then debrief before he has any visitors.”

Eggsy nods and goes to collect JB before leaving to move his Mum and sister into their new home since he’s got nothing to do at Kingsman, already knowing that this next day is going to be the longest of his life.

The place Merlin had said is now Eggsy’s—it’s beautiful. Daisy’s already making herself at home, running around and touching everything, chasing JB around as best she can. Michelle is a little more hesitant, but by the time lunch rolls around, she’s got her feet up on the coffee table and looks comfortable and secure. It was depressingly easy, getting all their things. They left the furniture there, not needing it when Eggsy was assured the place was fully furnished. The color scheme is a warm natural across the _two floors_ of the townhouse, and Michelle makes noise of painting the kitchen and getting a nice cheery color for Daisy’s room (“She can have her own _room”_ Michelle keeps saying, pleased).

It’s terribly domestic in a way Eggsy can’t ever remember his life being. He can’t help being terribly grateful to Harry for this, for all of it. And he gets to thank him properly. Because he’s alive.

“What are you grinning to yourself like a loon about, love?”

Eggsy laughs, everything is going right for them and it’s marvelous, “Nothing!”

Eggsy’s right, about this being the longest day. Trying to sleep is like trying to walk on water—only a miracle will get it done. He can’t help replaying his and Harry’s last interaction over and over, mind pausing and elongating every one of Harry’s angry looks. After—after everything that’s happened, once Harry gets debriefed, he won’t still be mad at Eggsy, he _can’t_ be, right?

Eggsy’s just expecting the worst. And with the way things are going so well, he’s due for a ‘worst’ but that doesn’t mean he has to have one, right? It doesn’t mean that Harry’s going to send him away. But what if he does? What if it was the lesson of the dog test—that Eggsy still can’t say he understands—that Harry was so disappointed in him about? What if Harry says he shouldn’t be a Kingsman after all? They can’t turn him out now, surely.

And then there’s the mentored missions. There’s a chance that Harry just won’t be able to do them—Eggsy’s no real idea where he’s at health wise. But what if he’s entirely fine, what if he just doesn’t _want_ to—not with Eggsy.

Eggsy twists again in the bed that’s much nicer than anything he’s slept in—excluding the night he slept in Harry’s spare room, which was even better than this because that night he actually _slept_. Maybe if he were back there, it would be easier, surrounded by Harry on every wall, in every decoration and accent, right down to the sheets.

_God_ tomorrow at three can’t come soon enough, if only to put him out of the misery of his own making once and for all.

* * *

 

Harry wants to see Eggsy right away. Wants to track him down wherever he is and apologize. Then Merlin debriefs him and he wants to track Eggsy down to apologize and absolutely smother the boy in praise. He truly is a Kingsman.

* * *

 

Tomorrow at three is here and it’s too soon.

Eggsy hands are sweaty and his throat keeps clicking without his consent. He’s been standing outside of Harry’s hospital room with absolutely no idea of what to expect for going on ten minutes now. And Harry had never made noise about Eggsy being late before, having confided in Eggsy early on in their mentor meetings that he’s almost always late for the bureaucratic workings of Kingsman. Not that Eggsy thinks this is bureaucratic—not at all, it’s just that he’s…well, he’s bloody nervous. More than he should be for just an informal (god, he hopes it’s informal, they’d tell him if it’s supposed to be formal right? He wouldn’t be wearing his winged Adidas if it were formal, Harry’s got to know that) meeting and ‘glad you’re alive’ chat.

Nothing to get worked up about.

Eggsy wipes his hand on his pants, not that it does any good, before pushing the door open. It’s the same room that Eggsy had gone to visit Harry in before after Professor Arnold’s head exploded at him. God, it seems like a life time ago. The walls are just as white, everything’s got the little Kingsman monograms. All as it should be.

Except Harry’s not there. Eggsy’s heart squeezes and he swears to god Harry’s going to be his cause of death. The stress this man puts him through is honestly just obnoxious. Eggsy grabs the door jam, closes his eyes tight before opening them again. Nope, still not there. Bed already made and everything, like he’s been gone a while, or like he’s never been here and the whole thing is a fever dream. Eggsy really needs to get those glasses, because then he could yell at Merlin right now about where Harry is instead of having to run down to his lair.

“Ah, Eggsy,” a voice, the baritone that Eggsy could pick out of a crowd of a thousand, comes from behind you, “I thought I might find you here. Did Merlin not tell you I’d been released?”

Eggsy slowly turns, and Harry just keeps going, “Still on medical leave, of course, but I don’t have to be bed bound which is a relief—for all involved, I’m sure.”

He looks fantastic. Dressed in a crisp grey suit, an eldredge knot for his tie and Eggsy knows he’s just showing off, probably poking fun at anyone who’s doubting his abilities after getting shot in the head. The only thing that hints at what he’s gone through is the startlingly white bandage wrapped around his head, covering his left eye.

“Shall we head to my office? It’ll be more comfortable that here,” Harry’s slight smile falls into a concerned frown as Eggsy stays silent, just taking him in, “My dear boy, are you quite alright?”

Eggsy makes a sound, forced out and wordless, and then he’s hugging Harry hard, head shoved into the bend of his neck as he forces back tears, he’s cried more than enough over Harry as it is. When Harry’s arms wrap around him, strong and steady, Eggsy can finally, finally relax.

They stay like that for a long time. Eggsy unwilling to move, to let Harry slip between his fingers again. But they have to part at some point. And when they pull back, Eggsy looks up into Harry’s eye and thinks ‘I want to kiss him’. It takes a moment, for that thought to settle, but when it does, it hits him, hard and world-altering but for the fact it seems so natural, so right.

“Harry…” Eggsy can feel himself sway forward, and Harry’s looking at him with a familiar heat and Eggsy has to wonder for how long?

Harry takes an abrupt step back and Eggsy barely manages to catch himself, “We should get going.” And then he’s walking down the hall and Eggsy feels off balance as he follows.

His office is the same, and in the space Eggsy is reminded of every one of their mentor and mentee meetings and he thinks that he must have loved Harry since almost the beginning. Harry takes a seat and looks at Eggsy, smile on his face as he beckons Eggsy to sit in the plush chair across from him.

“Eggsy, first and foremost, I need to apologize—”

“You need—?!,” Eggsy can’t help it, “Harry— _I’m_ the one who’s sorry, I let you down and—” Harry holds up a hand and Eggsy falls silent.

“No Eggsy, I was wrong,” Harry looks at him, fond and gentle and Eggsy heart, it goes tight for good reasons for the first time in forever, “I should have had more faith in you,” Eggsy opens his mouth, but Harry sends him a stern look before words can even thing of forming, “I was able to review the tape, Eggsy, and what you took was not the final test, not how it’s supposed to be given. If I had known Chester would interfere like that—” Harry cuts himself off, expression stormy, but he’s not mad at Eggsy, he’s mad _for_ Eggsy, for the way he was treated. It makes him feel lighter.

“I’d say you could tell ‘im, but…” Eggsy can’t help the cheeky grin.

Harry’s face lights up, “Yes, I was able to watch that security feed and Eggsy, I can’t say how proud of you I am, and then to go on and save the world when I was napping…you’ve done Kingsman proud, and me more so.”

“Thanks,” Eggsy says wetly.

Harry gives a soft smile and Eggsy wants to wrap himself in it, cling to Harry and never let go, “Now, let’s have that tea you were promised.”

* * *

 

The apology out in the air is a weight off his shoulders. Which is good but for the fact that now that the guilt recedes it’s harder to ignore how absolutely enamored with Eggsy he is. There are reasons not to do anything about it—many reasons, each one better than the last. But with the boy in the same room as him, it’s just as easy to make up excuses as it is to stick to more rational thoughts.

Harry sticks to civility as best he can, politeness an armor better than any bullet proof suit. He can’t help noticing Eggsy’s lips on his cup of tea, of the bob of his throat when he drains his glass, of the pleasant glint in his eyes. But as long as he does nothing about any of that, he can keep Eggsy distant enough from him to not absolutely ruin what they have.

* * *

 

Realizing he’s in love with Harry doesn’t actually change much. He’s hyper aware when Harry puts his hands on him, and with the frequency Harry touches his shoulder or the small of his back, hope blooms like a fragile thing. And then there’s the smiles. He’s freer with them now, or Eggsy notices more of them because of how he can’t take his eyes off Harry for more than a moment.

When Harry’s cleared for active duty—he still has a bandage around his left eye, and he’s lost some vision in it, but he’s passed all his physicals and evaluations and Eggsy’s pretty sure he annoyed Merlin into submission—they ship off within the week. It’s at this time that Eggsy’s given his official Kingsman title. Since the precedent is for a knight to die and the candidates be proposed, there’s not really a place for two candidates to have won. Arthur—the new Arthur—decided that Eggsy would get his former name: Lamorak, and the other knights that were lost from the SIM signal or from microchips, would be replaced in the traditional way.

It’s straightforward enough, they’re on assignment to kill a Mr. Florence DeVrai who, in the power vacuum that came about after V-day (as it’s called in Kingsman) in France, is looking to get rid of those who made it through alive with a biological weapon. According to their intel, he hasn’t actually got his hands on the main component of the weapon yet, and since DeVrai is not only the planning mind, but the scientific mind behind the process, taking him out will spell an end to his entire operation as his underlings flounder and spread to the winds.

They’re on the rooftops overlooking Paris waiting for DeVrai to exit his building at seven, as he has the last two days they’ve been tailing him. Harry’s got the sniper riffle all set up and is just waiting for his moment. Eggsy’s job is to stand back in the alcove out of the way and act as lookout. A low risk job as DeVrai having any idea they’re coming for him is slim.

Apparently not slim enough. Eggsy hears Harry take the shot, a small pop from the silencer, and then almost immediately after, louder than the screams of people below, there’s another shot taken—from Eggsy’s left—and Harry goes down.

“Harry!” Eggsy can’t help yelling, head whipping to where the shot came from. There’s a burly man two rooftops over with a gun that doesn’t seem to expect Harry to have backup. He turns to run away, not even attempting to take a shot. Eggsy aims his gun, makes sure his stance is strong and aim true and not be distracted by the _Harry Harry Harry oh god Harry_ that’s running through his head and fires. The man crumples, cursing and clutching his leg.

Once it’s obvious the man isn’t going to jump up and keep running (Eggsy was aiming for the knee, so if he’s a good shot, the man won’t be going anywhere), Eggsy’s face crumples and he runs to Harry’s side, hoping against hope he’s okay.

“Harry! Harry are you okay?” Eggsy skids down next to where Harry’s lying and lets out a huge breath when Harry shifts and sits up.

“Of course, darling,” Harry says, face annoyed as he looks down at his suit and the dirt he’s got on it now, “I went down when I heard the shot, I knew you’d get him.” Harry looks over past Eggsy to where the shooter is still writhing, holding his leg and cursing.

Eggsy’s so relieved he doesn’t think about it, just does—hands go to the sides of Harry’s face, and then he’s leaning in and kisses Harry full on the lips.

God he feels wonderful. Harry’s lips are soft against his chapped ones, and when Eggsy gasps as the feel of it, Harry pushes forward, dipping his tongue in Eggsy’s mouth and making him shiver all over. Harry’s hand burn on his back, and the slow, sensual roll of their mouths sends sparks down his spine. The world seems to fade away, Eggsy can only feel the rasp of slight stubble under his hands and Harry’s lips against his, smell Harry cologne, and marvel at the wetness of where their mouths met.

And then a siren goes off below, loud and wailing, and it breaks them apart. Looking at Harry, his eyes keep going to his lips before he wretches them away, only to have to do it again. He—they—Eggsy can feel his face flushing.

Harry clears his throat, “we best go collect our guest before the authorities arrive.”

Eggsy nods dumbly, stands and hoping the distance between the rooftops with ease from his years of free running. The rapid beating of his heart though, that’s nothing to do with the jumps and everything to do with Harry. Eggsy can’t help a giddy smile before schooling himself into a more Kingsman appropriate expression when he gets to his target.

After interrogating Alonso “Al” Norvoti and dropping him off at the police station with a recorded confession around his neck, Eggsy and Harry head back to the plane and then London. Harry’s been silent, since their kiss—well, silent on all things that matter at least—and Eggsy can’t keep his thoughts from zinging, or stop how his stomach keeps doing flips.

When they board the plane, the tension breaks. Harry sighs, a long thing, and then looks at Eggsy like he’s one of the bugs in his collection. Eggsy can’t help shuffling in his seat.

“Eggsy…” and just from that Eggsy already knows how this is going to turn out. He ducks his head, feels shame curdle in his stomach and wants nothing more than to disappear. Harry could have left it at that, just that utterance of his name held so much, but no, he just has to continue, to ‘soften the blow’.

“We were in a high stakes situation, and on the tail of you thinking I had been killed in a similar way,” oh god this is worse, Harry trying to give Eggsy an excuse when it was all Eggsy, just Eggsy, “and I can’t imagine what was going through your head, but I know it must have been distressing and I want you to know, this won’t change anything.”

Eggsy nods dumbly, this whole thing leaving a sour taste in his mouth, so far from the sweetness that was their kiss. But, this could be good, better even. Harry’s willing to overlook Eggsy unprofessional feelings, and even giving Eggsy an excuse for his actions so Harry will be better able to work with Eggsy in the future without the inconvenient truth of his feelings fucking everything up.

It doesn’t make it better, but at least Harry isn’t sending him away, isn’t saying that he’ll have to work with another knight for the rest of his probationary period. Small mercies. Still leaves them in an awkward silence for the rest of the flight—something Eggsy’s never experienced with Harry before. But it’s better this way. It’s got to be. Eggsy feels his stomach clench and throat dry. It has to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for the comments--they mean a lot and keep me motivated :)


	11. Push

The kiss—Eggsy kissing him. It’s the most amazing, overwhelming, wonderful thing. His lips are soft, mouth warm, hands all but shaking in their need to make sure he’s okay, that he’s fine. That he hadn’t been shot again.

It’s that realization that pulls him back. Eggsy’d thought he’d been shot again. Misplaced grief and relief and adrenaline must be coursing through Eggsy, spurring him on to do something, anything to make sure Harry’s still alive.

He can’t take advantage of that. So he doesn’t.

And then Eggsy stops coming around as often and Harry realizes just how much of his free time was spent in the company of the boy. He’d spelt the end to their kiss because he wanted to preserve their friendship, didn’t want Eggsy to shy away because of misunderstandings and embarrassment and now…now it looks like he’d cocked it up.

A traitorous, hopeful part of himself wonders if Eggsy likes him. If his distance is because of a perceived rejection when truly he’d been protecting himself—allowing Eggsy a comfortable out so he wouldn’t have to lie, so Harry wouldn’t have to hear him fumble through an excuse.

That part of him, that sliver of hope that won’t die, makes him get up to look for the lad, try to mend bridges and perhaps—maybe…

* * *

Eggsy spends more time in the gym than he does in Harry’s office now, and its better this way. He’s actually doing something productive instead of bothering Harry. And Harry hasn’t said anything about it, because he probably likes the peace and quiet and was just too kind to tell Eggsy off before.

“Woah, what’d the bag ever do to you?”

Eggsy pulls back from the punching bag to see Belvidere grinning at him.

“If you have that much energy, Lamorak, care to spar?”

Eggsy looks between the bag and Belvidere. He likes the other knight, Belvidere made a point to come and introduce himself to Roxy and Eggsy after that initial meeting, and he almost always has a big grin on, which is usually infectious. Eggsy just needs to decide if he wants to keep wallowing or actually move forward.

“Sure.”

It’s a good choice, fighting Belvidere takes all his concentration and he can get lost in the aches of his body instead of his heart. They’re pretty evenly matched, but Belvidere’s got some height and weight on him and Eggsy’s just that bit faster. It’s a good session, and they finally call it quits when Eggsy gets sweat in his eyes that stings like nothing else and makes it very easy for Belvidere to slam him into the mat.

“That was fun,” Belvidere laughs, extending his hand.

Eggsy lets himself be pulled up, “yeah, yeah, I’ll get you next time.”

“You can try!”

“pfft,” Eggsy lets out, pulling his shirt up to wipe the sweat off his face.

“Glad to see you smiling again.” Belvidere says, low and kind and Eggsy blinks up at him, still, hadn’t know he was until it’s pointed out. He never expected any of the other knights to welcome him so warmly, to notice when he was down and try to cheer him up, especially with how the old Arthur acted. Sure, their method to cheer him was violence, but it did work.

“Thanks.”

“Belvidere.” Eggsy feels the eyes burning a hole in his back before he hears the voice behind him. Eggsy feels disheveled and clammy, Harry showing up unexpectedly like this making him feel adrift. He lets his shirt fall and has to fight the urge to fix his hair.

“Yeah, Galahad?” Belvidere asks, not noticing (ignoring, he’s a highly trained spy, he must be ignoring for Eggsy’s own benefit) Eggsy’s reaction, “what can I do for you?”

Eggsy turns to face Harry, it would be weird if he stayed with his back towards him, right? He tries not to look like he’s been caught though it’s how he feels, even though he’s done nothing wrong.

“If I could get your help identifying a few shell casing I’m working with?” Harry asks, though his eyes never leave Eggsy.

“Ooo! You know how to get straight to a man’s heart, Galahad.” Belvidere rubs his hands together and Eggsy lets out a high pitched, entirely embarrassing laugh, because Belvidere hit it right on the head.

He forces a cough, marking the worst recovery in history, “I should—get going. Thanks for sparing with me Belvidere. Ha—Galahad.” Eggsy nods to them and beats his hasty retreat, feeling Harry’s eyes follow him on the way out and Eggsy feels raw, exposed and fake.

* * *

 

He’s in the gym with Belvidere, looking gorgeous as he always does in motion. Eggsy was a man meant for motion—his graceful movements, his coiled power.

Then he sees it. When Eggsy stretches, the back of his shirt raises and he sees it. Eggsy’s soul mark. It’s lovely. Colorful like the man in front of him with a sense of deliberateness that must belong to whoever the mark tied him to, because while Eggsy could be deliberate, he thrived when he could improvise and be free in movement and speech.

Regardless, it was a lovely thing. A lovely thing that served to throw him entirely off. He hadn’t—he hadn’t dared hope they were…but to know they’re not, that’s another thing entirely.

He can’t tell Eggsy his feelings now, can’t put him in that position when he has someone out there for him. And by god he can’t be with the man right now, not as his gut churns and he feels sick with the truth.

* * *

 

By the time there’s another mission appropriate for them to take, Harry’s bandage has receded to just around his head, the wide patch of it on his left temple. He has his left eye back, and though he says he’d almost gotten used to just the one, Eggsy can see his relieve at knowing the full extent of his visual impairment finally.

Now it’s Eggsy turn to take point. Instead of a mission to take someone out, this mission is to protect. Princess Tilde has been receiving threats from the late prime minister’s loyal followers that are personal and violating in their rendition of her schedule and what they will do to exact revenge. It’s strange that the group doesn’t seem to understand that the Prime Minster left them to die along with the rest of the planet when he went along with Valentine’s plan, but hey, what does Eggsy know.

Eggsy likes Princess Tilde, and from her looks and coy remarks, she more than likes him. And honestly, if it had been before, well, _everything_ he totally would have. But now, Harry’s presence behind him makes receiving her advances, even passively, feel embarrassing and wrong. And so he rejects Tilde’s advances with a boyish smile, receiving a pretty pout for his effort.

As the day—where Tilde will be giving a speech to the people about unity in this trying time during an all-day summit—goes on, nothing out of the ordinary happens. Harry’s just starting to make some noise over the comms about the group being all bark and no bite, when the world sets out to prove him wrong.

A man jumps up from the crowd—yells something Eggsy doesn’t understand (gotta get on those language lessons)—and takes a shot at Tilde. Eggsy jumps to action, pushing Tilde out of the way, and getting a bullet to his suit for his troubles. The terrifying, scary thing, is that the shot almost directly hit where his soul mark is, leaving Eggsy dumb struck and useless for a few key seconds. The crowd erupts in shrieks and yells, and Eggsy is prompted back to action. He pulls Tilde through a back entrance and gets her into her bullet proof car, handing her safety over to her security team before heading back into the building in hopes that he’ll be able to find the shooter, or that Harry already has.

When Eggsy gets back into the banquet hall, Harry already has their guy in custody and is talking with the local authorities, speaking in their native tongue (another push for learning a language). Eggsy hangs back, not wanting to ruin whatever cover Harry’s spinning up, and waits. He sits on the stage, presses gentle fingers against his hip where his soul mark is, and where a bruise is forming half on it and half off it.

Eggsy looks hard at the man Harry caught. He doesn’t spark anything in him, and honestly, with Harry around and the feelings he’s got for him, Eggsy doesn’t think it matters if his soulmate just waltzes up and declares their undying bond, he’d just say ‘maybe some other time’ and hope Harry wouldn’t notice.

Speaking of “Were you hurt?” Harry asks hand hovering over Eggsy’s shoulder.

“Nawh, I’m fine,” Eggsy answers, setting his probing hand a bit more naturally against his hip and hoping Harry won’t notice, “the suit works wonders.” He says, hopping off the stage and cringing as he realizes what he’s said—he just admitted that he got shot.

“Where.” Harry’s question doesn’t sound so questioning as he leans closer, almost boxing Eggsy in with the stage at his back.

“Honestly Harry, it’s nothing, I’ve just got a bruise that will go ‘way quick enough. I’ll be right as rain in no time.” Eggsy smiles best he can, feeling awkward around Harry now that all he can think about is how he wants to kiss him and how Harry doesn’t want to kiss him back.

Harry leans closer and Eggsy can’t help swaying forward. He thinks for a moment that he sees the same desire in Harry’s eyes that he knows are in his. And then Harry’s eyes fall to Eggsy’s lips and Eggsy knows he’s not imagining it, that Harry actually does want him the way Eggsy does Harry. Eggsy can’t help licking his lips. When Harry’s eyes follow the movement, Eggsy feels it in the air, the potential energy spiking, so close to cresting. And then Harry’s fingers brush his back, and like always the touch becomes Eggsy’s focus, his tether. But at that touch, Harry pulls back and away, creating space and distance and leaving Eggsy cold.

“Very well then. We should report to Merlin, I believe our mission is done here.” Harry starts for the door, without waiting for Eggsy to answer.

Eggsy takes a moment to calm himself, to push down the riot of emotions and extremes he’s just experienced so he can get through this. He’ll parse through them all later.

Merlin gives them the okay to head back to headquarters and Harry settles in, closing his eyes and making it excessively clear he doesn’t want to talk with Eggsy. It’s a big change from their short ride to France, when Harry gave tips and pointers and shared a story or two about interesting missions he’d had in the country. It had reminded Eggsy of their twenty four hours together, that night they’d stayed up late, drank too many martinis and talked. Eggsy’s actually a bit glad he wasn’t self-aware of his feelings then, god knows what he’d do if he were in the same situation now.

Harry’s steadfast silence leaves Eggsy to think on what happened when Harry came to check on him after the radical was handed off to the local police. He knows he didn’t imagine it, the way Harry was looking at him, the heat in his eyes. They had been close to—to _something_ but when Harry touched him it broke. Like Harry realized himself, and pulled back. Harry has to know that’s the last thing Eggsy wants, so why is he stopping himself?

Eggsy can still feel the tingle of phantom fingers brushing against his back. The warmth of them, the rightness and giddiness he feels when Harry is close. The cold crash when Harry pushes him away. Eggsy sighs, glancing sidelong at Harry, where the man has actually succeeded in falling asleep, head listing to the side in an uncomfortable angle. Eggsy catches himself smiling.

He can’t live with this. With Harry giving him a hope of what he’s certain they both want only to deny them in the end. They’ll have to talk, and if there’s one thing proper gents like Harry don’t care for, is talking about their feelings. Eggsy best bet is to corner the bastard where he can’t escape.

And that’s how Eggsy ends up inviting himself over to Harry’s house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for the reviews! they're so appreciated and are very motivating!


	12. Crash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> forewarning; as you may have guessed, Eggsy and Harry aren't doing too hot at communicating with one another. elements in this chapter can be seen as dubious consent because of withheld information.

Harry almost broke, right there in the venue. Almost ravished Eggsy, propriety be damned. He wanted to. So, so bad. But at Harry’s touch, as his hand pressed against Eggsy’s back with every intention of pulling him in to a heated kiss, the boy’s soul mark came into focus in his head and he gained the presence of mind to pull back, to pull away, to not force one-sided affections onto Eggsy.

The way back to London Harry lost himself in his head, staying silent for fear he would say—or heavens _do_ —something terribly stupid. He could feel Eggsy’s eyes on him, could feel that he’d been found out but he couldn’t—if he—if he just stayed silent perhaps Eggsy would let it pass, let it fade like a bad dream.

That’s what he wanted to happen when he got home, nurse a drink and wake up tomorrow with his bone deep exhaustion and hot feeling of shame muted by a nights rest. That’s when of course, there comes a knock on his door.

* * *

 

“Eggsy,” Harry looks surprised as he opens the door, but then of course he would, it’s not like Eggsy called ahead, “is something wrong?” and as he says it he gestures Eggsy in, ever the gentleman.

“Yeah,” Eggsy says as Harry closes the door, summoning indignation in the foyer, needing the feeling to carry him through if he wants to do anything other than say ‘sorry never mind’ and leave red faced,  “something is wrong. We—” he gestures between them, “—got something, and you keep stopping it.”

“Eggsy—” Harry says in that tone again, that way he has that packs everything into his name and makes Eggsy feel the fool for ever disagreeing with him, but that’s not going to happen, not today.

“Nope!” Eggsy cuts him off with a violent hand motion and Harry has the decency to look at least mildly cowed, “when I kissed ya Harry, it wasn’t any heat of the moment thing—well, it was, but it wasn’t just cause of that. I’ve been mad for you for a long damn time, and I kissed you because I wanted to.” Eggsy takes a deep breath, feels his cheeks start to heat even as he tries to keep his indignation hot, “and I want to again, I wanna be with you, and I know you want me too.”

“Eggsy…” Harry says again, and this time his name sounds sad and pained and Eggsy can’t help how it hurts.

“Just-just tell me why?” how he got to begging so quickly, he doesn’t know, “we could be good, you and me, and you—you make me happy a way no one else does, and I wanna—I can be good for you too.”

Harry looks like Eggsy’s hurting him, and damn it, that’s Eggsy’s due not Harry’s, not when Harry’s the one saying no.

“I’m-my age is an issue,” Harry starts, stopping Eggsy’s rebuttal with a look, “and I’m your mentor, these feelings are most likely a misidentification of the feelings you’d have for any strong mentor figure in your life.” Eggsy almost can’t hold back his snort. He doesn’t have any of these feelings for Merlin, and the man was as much a mentor as Harry was. But that’s another conversation, Harry’s trying to derail them, and Eggsy won’t have it.

“But you feel it too.”

Harry gives a rueful smile, “more reason for me not to take advantage of your confusion.”

“But Harry—”

“And are you willing to forsake your soulmate so easily?” Harry looks sad and tired and knowing.

That—that causes true anger and indignation. The hairs on the back of his neck and arms raise and he feels bare. The scar, the scar that is his soul burns and Eggsy hates, he hates viciously whoever it is it belongs to, because they’re not Harry. His soul mark has caused him so much pain, he’s not going to let it stop him from being with Harry, that’s something not even his soul can stop.

“Yes.” Eggsy says, looking Harry straight in the eyes, and it comes out strong and firm because it’s absolutely true. A stranger means nothing against Harry who is here and alive and the person Eggsy would _choose_.

Harry’s eyes are wide and Eggsy can see the faintest of tremors and it rings through him like hope, “My dear boy, you can’t possibly mean—”

“I do.” Eggsy takes a step closer, takes Harry’s hands in his and he’s right. Harry’s shaking, and Eggsy is steady, “I don’t care about them, whoever or wherever they are, Harry. I care about _you_.”

“But when they come, when you meet them one day—” Harry takes a breath, “Eggsy, I’m not doing this to protect you, I’m doing this to protect myself.”

Eggsy squeeze his hands tighter, wants to rail against the idea that he’d ever hurt Harry like that, that he’d ever leave him for someone fate determined when he is choosing his own path, right now. Eggsy takes a deep breath, tries to stay calm, to look at it through Harry’s point of view. And then he wonders, could it be that Harry would end up doing that to him?

“What happened to your soulmate, Harry?”

Harry lets out a shuttering laugh, “We’ve never met. I’m fifty four and we’ve never met.”

Eggsy hurts, from the story behind those words and the pain in Harry voice, raw and unguarded, “would you—if your soulmate showed up, would you stop loving me? Would you walk away?”

“Eggsy,” Harry looks fractured, “you have a chance, a chance at a real life with your soulmate. I—I don’t.”

Eggsy fights against that, against Harry speaking of himself in such a way, doesn’t he know what a man he is? How his nobility of character bleeds into the world and makes it better, even just a little.

“Harry,” Eggsy lets go of his hands, he doesn’t want to squeeze them too hard, and hates how Harry lets them fall limp at his sides, how he looks like Eggsy the one who’s going to leave him, “I don’t care—I don’t care about soulmates, I choose you, and I’d choose you again tomorrow and the next day and the next. We could be wonderful, and I’m not going to let some—some potential future ruin that. If you say no, if you tell me to—” Eggsy catches himself, stops the warble in his voice, and points an accusing finger at Harry’s chest “to go. Then that’s on you. It’s not the soul mark that makes that decision, it’s you and I—I don’t care if you have a-a bouquet of fucking _daisies_ Harry, you—”

Harry’s expression changes, that continual curl inward halts and Harry looks at Eggsy like the world is new.

“Harry, what—”

And then Harry’s going at his own buttons, undoing his suit jacket and then the dress shirt with fumbling (Harry, _fumbling_ ) fingers. Once he’s pulled the sides apart, he’s pushing up his undershirt and there on his chest, right over his heart where Eggsy’d been pointing, is his soul mark.

A delicate bunch of daisies tied together with a blue ribbon. With the way Harry’s looking at him, he knows what Harry’s thinking, that this mark points to him. Eggsy’s scar mark throbs and Harry’s mark—Harry’s mark looks painted on with such a love and care that it can’t belong to him. And Eggsy feels an unchecked jealousy at whoever it is this mark on Harry’s chest really belongs to, because nothing this beautiful could ever be his.

And then a sadness so profound it hurts, for Harry, waiting on someone who’s never shown up, for the true owner of the mark who doesn’t know the beautiful wonderful man who deserves to get his fairytale ending, and for himself. Because despite everything, a treacherous, terribly hopeful and innocent part of his heart whispered ‘but what if we _are_ soulmates?’ and in this instant that last part of him that hoped dies.

“Harry…” Eggsy starts, looking up at Harry whose eyes are so bright. He doesn’t know what he’s going to say. Maybe ‘sorry’ or ‘I can’t do this’ or ‘I was wrong, you have to wait for them, I’m not a replacement, I’m a downgrade’.

Harry kisses him, lets his shirt fall and takes the sides of Eggsy’s face in his hands a draws him in and Eggsy—he can’t pull back, now when this is everything he’s wanted. And it’s easier with Harry’s mark hidden, easier to ignore it, except for the fact that he _knows_ now and why can’t it be _him_?

Harry kisses him like he’s precious. Soft, wet motions and deep passes of tongue. Not hurried or hard, Harry’s taking his time, feeling every corner of his mouth, making Eggsy tingle. This is someone else’s, Eggsy’s traitorous mind whispers. He never cared before, about marks or soulmates with the people he’s taken to bed, but then he never loved them, and he most certainly loves Harry.

Harry pulls back and Eggsy keeps his eyes closed for just a bit longer, just long enough to take this moment and tuck it away from the world, keep it safe for when everything else falls down around him.

“All this time,” Harry whispers, pressing his forehead to Eggsy’s and Eggsy can’t help but whine, bring his hands up to where Harry’s cup his face and hold them, keep them there, “all this time you were right here in front of me.”

Eggsy opens his eyes. Harry’s looking straight back at him, brown eyes warm and soft. But Eggsy’s gaze is caught by the bandage hanging above his left eye. Eggsy’s eyes stick on it, that harsh white against the brown of his hair that falls in front of it and the tan of his skin. Eggsy almost lost Harry. He almost lost him for good and even if—even if he loses him for real for this, for not telling Harry that he’s not his soulmate—knowing him, holding him close, if only for a little while, might be enough. It has to be, because Eggsy’s not strong enough for anything else.

He doesn’t realize his hand is moving until he feels the gauze under his fingertips. Harry takes his hand and brings it to his lips, kisses it softly, reverently. Eggsy breaks. Harry’s kiss was soft, gentle and coaxing—Eggsy’s is dipped in desperation and it hurts, kissing Harry and knowing, _knowing_ that there’s another out there that Harry will find (because he will, the world owes Harry that) and it will make his affections for Eggsy seem childish and shallow.

Harry was so worried about Eggsy leaving him, Eggsy finding his soulmate. Eggsy knows the truth, it’s him that is going to hurt. He’s the one that will be left behind for truer and better affections. And when Harry leaves him—be it for another or for the fact that Eggsy didn’t set him straight didn’t say ‘that mark? It’s not mine, it doesn’t point to me. That points to someone better, someone beautiful inside who loves you without the rough edges and failings’—Eggsy won’t make it, not fully, not wholly. He will crack at the corners and fracture in his most guarded places and it will be no one’s fault but his own. All he can think, with Harry’s lips against his, warm and willing and rasping, is that there are worse ways to go.

Eggsy doesn’t realize the hold he has on Harry’s lapels until his hands start to hurt, cramping in their claws and daring Harry to try and run. But Harry isn’t going anywhere. His arms are wrapped around Eggsy, holding him close, and it feels like burning. When Eggsy pulls back, gasps for breath, it’s like breaking the surface of the ocean a moment before it claims you fully, only Eggsy’s not certain he wants to live. Lapping waves take the form of Harry’s murmurs between light kisses against his face and throat, whispered words of love and adoration and they elate Eggsy as they twist the knife in his heart and conscience.

It becomes too much, “Harry—Harry,” Eggsy uses his clawed hands to drag his prey back, to look him in the eyes.

Eggsy’s never in his life stolen from someone who couldn’t take it. He’s always singled out the rich to pick pocket, always steals from the areas of the store that get no one in trouble. He’s not a robin hood, but he doesn’t steal for fun or show.

This right here, Harry’s eyes on him open and trusting and full of love for a person Eggsy’s not, this is stealing. Eggsy cups Harry’s cheek, sucks in a breath when Harry turns to kiss his palm. He doesn’t think Harry can take it, this sort of crime. Eggsy knows he can’t.

Even if by some miracle he comes out of this unscathed, he still won’t be whole.

“Harry, take me to bed.”

* * *

 

Harry can’t actually hear anything immediately after Eggsy says his soul mark while pointing directly at it. His whole world turns on its axis and so many—so many things make sense. Everything falls into place.

His mother was right, it didn’t matter how long he had to wait to meet his soul mate, it was all worth it. And he became the man he needed to be for them, for his soul mate—for Eggsy.

Harry pulls at his clothes until it shows; the soft bunch of daisies over his heart, tied together gently with blue ribbon. He’s not looking at it though, he’s spent countless hours in his youth gazing at it, tracing the petals and stems, Harry’s looking at Eggsy.

Eggsy’s face goes slack for a moment, staring at Harry’s soul mark. His face contorts for a moment, and Harry can feel the doubts creeping in, can hear Eggsy breaking himself. He has every right to.

Harry has seen Eggsy’s soul mark, back at the gym with Belvidere, and he knows it doesn’t point to him. Nothing about the splash of color on Eggsy’s back spoke to Harry at all. It was just a beautiful mark on a gorgeous boy. This doesn’t magically make Eggsy’s mark point to Harry. Harry has heard of enough people whose soul mate had a mark that tied to someone else to know that it’s what’s happened with them.

Harry’s mark points to Eggsy, he knows it in his heart now. It’s just another undisputable truth in the universe. Eggsy’s points to—to someone else. Knowing this doesn’t change Harry’s elation at finding his soul mate, like a piece of him is finally falling into place and nothing else really matters.

He should tell Eggsy, should let him know that while Eggsy is his soul mate, he isn’t Eggsy’s. The boy deserves to know, and better to tell him now before Eggsy asks and Harry’s forced to confess.

Maybe just one kiss first. Or two. Or he should just wait until Eggsy asks…

* * *

 

He feels ridiculous, those words coming out of his mouth, like he’s trying to be someone he’s not. But isn’t that what this is all about? First he tries to be a Kingsman, then he tries to be Harry’s soul mate. He got found out the first time around with Kingsman and the dog test, it’s only a matter of time before Harry finds out too.

But Harry gives him a boyish and delighted smile that Eggsy can’t fight against, not as unprepared as he is. He heats from head to toe, feeling special and idiotic in one. Like a schoolboy whose crush said yes.

“We needn’t rush,” Harry says, brushing his lips against Eggsy hair and tightening his arm around his waist, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Eggsy can’t help huffing, distracting himself from the lie he knows those words are because of him, because he isn’t telling the truth, “you’re just sayin that to be all gentlemanly.”

“The first part maybe,” Harry concedes with a laugh, one hand traveling to Eggsy’s arse, “but certainly not the second.”

Eggsy can’t fight a smile at Harry’s unabashed words and actions, even as guilt rises up like a cloying thing. 

He’ll—he’ll tell Harry. He will, soon enough, really. Just—if tonight’s his only night, if now is his only time to be with Harry in the way he’s craved since before he consciously knew, then he can’t stop himself from taking it. He doesn’t have the willpower. Harry can’t fault him for that surely. Maybe even one day Harry will understand.

But that’s for later. When Harry realizes the truth. He must already know somehow—that Eggsy’s never going to be the person Harry’s soul mark points to. Eggsy feels himself folding in, shutting down. Harry looks at him for a moment, concern in the corner of his eyes. He leans in and brushes his lips very gently against Eggsy’s forehead. It doesn’t so much as snap Eggsy out of his thoughts as it causes the desperation to overshadow the guilt.

“It’s the first part I’m concerned with.” Eggsy infuses as much bravado into his voice as he can and when he catches Harry’s eyes, he’s perversely pleased by the widening of Harry’s pupils. It sends a thrill through him— _Eggsy’s the one turning Harry on, Eggsy’s the one that’s wanted_ —that makes him think he can get through this without falling apart and begging Harry to swear on his life he’ll never leave Eggsy, even when his real soulmate comes along.

“Well,” Harry gives him a short kiss, “let me” another “relieve” another “those” another “concerns”

Eggsy smiles despite himself, “you never did show me your bedroom during my tour.”

“What a terrible oversight.” Harry leads the way, taking Eggsy’s hand firmly as if worried he’ll get lost.

The bedroom is much like the guest room, strange statement pieces and art décor littering walls and corners, attaché bathroom and closet, end tables and large bed that takes up most of the space. The color palate is different, warmer, less neutral, and the bed sheets look softer than anything. It’s calming and comfortable, so undeniably Harry that Eggsy feels safe.

When Harry turns to him, pulling him closer and cupping his cheek, the light, teasing mood from the foyer is drowned in deep desire and intimacy.

The fierce desperation that’s plagued Eggsy is slowed here, each movement that should be a rush of limbs is like wading through water, languid and sensual. Harry pulls him into a kiss that’s all wet noise and tingling lips, stealing Eggsy breath and hazing his mind.

Eggsy shivers once, eyes falling half shut though he keeps them turned to Harry. Harry softens around the edges, leans in to kiss along his jaw and dip his hands under Eggsy’s shirt. They feel large and rough against his waist, calming him and exciting him in one.

“May I?” Harry asks, hands almost shy as they fiddle with the edge of his shirt. It throws Eggsy for a loop, the idea of Harry feeling shy, unsure of his welcome that Harry doesn’t comprehend how much Eggsy truly adores him.

Eggsy nods dumbly and Harry pushes off his jacket first, then pulls off his shirt. Once it’s off, he stops—takes a long look at Eggsy that makes it Eggsy’s turn to feel shy and embarrassed in a way he never has at the estates. He almost wants to speed things up, go faster and stop every movement from having this weight of emotion, of connection.

When Eggsy moves to do the same, push Harry’s suit jacket and button up off his shoulders, and pulls off Harry’s undershirt, he wills himself to go faster. For his attitude to save him with a quip or jib, something to cut through the tension that rises like a mist.

He can’t break from the tempo they’ve created, can’t force them along into the familiarity of a quick fuck—hard and fast and meaningless. When things do change pace, it’s not for anything familiar. Harry’s undershirt comes off and his soul mark bared. And Eggsy freezes

Eggsy can’t look at anything else. Even when he tries to take in the lean swimmer’s muscles of Harry’s chest, the flat of his stomach and the definition of his hip bones, his eyes are instead stopped by that damn mark. It’s gorgeous, and Harry seems content to let him look, his fingers dragging along Eggsy’s chest in senseless patterns.

Eggsy barely feels it, his focus stuck on the mark. And the longer he looks, the more it fills the pit of his stomach with dread, with anxiety, with the sinking feeling that whoever the mark belongs to is going to come from the ether and drag Harry away, well out of Eggsy’s reach. Or worse—Harry’s going to figure it out (figure him out) any moment and send him off with the same anger they’d parted terms when Harry left for Kentucky.

“You have freckles,” Harry says, and it rips Eggsy eyes away from the mark and up to Harry’s. The man is looking at him so fondly, so affectionately, that Eggsy wants nothing more than to wrap himself in Harry, say suspended in this moment. Trick himself into thinking Harry’s feelings are for him—for Eggsy—and not for the idea of his soulmate for which he plays a terrible replacement.

Eggsy surges up to kiss him, hands going to his slacks and pants, shoving them down—mind carefully blank as his scar mark hits the open air—before going for Harry’s belt. He hopes Harry can’t taste his desperation.

When they break, Harry murmurs in his ear, gentle things filled with desire and love. Eggsy can’t help whimpering, hands useless on Harry’s belt with how shaky they’ve gone. Harry’s going to tear him apart, give him too much, be too good to him. Harry has so much love and tenderness to give and Eggsy, he doesn’t think he can take it without shattering apart.

“You’re alright, Darling,” Harry murmurs, into the corner of his mouth, undoing his belt himself and stripping. Then he pulls closer, moving them to the edge of the bed and urging Eggsy to sit. Harry falls into the ‘v’ of his legs and Eggsy can’t stop a shiver.

They stay there, breathing the same air until Harry says, “open your eyes,” and Eggsy almost struggles with it, wanting to keep the rest of the world at bay and just _feel_.

Eggsy’s breath catches, and Harry savors it on his tongue. Eggsy can’t be expected to keep his eyes open as they kiss, not with the air is so full of the wet sounds of tongue and lips. It seems obscenely loud in the quiet room and Eggsy’s never felt so aware of the tingling of his lips.

Harry bends to his neck, gives it loud, sucking kisses that make Eggsy breath hitch and leave him with a sigh. It’s new territory—both not being in charge and directing in the bedroom, but also the tone of it, the slow unchanging lapping of waves that is their pace. His past has been hard and fast and his fucking no different. This—he dare not name it, the time and care he’s being shown or the feelings it arouses.

Harry’s teeth pull on skin and Eggsy’s dragged back, grounded in the here. It’s a blessing, but also a curse because, despite how painstakingly slow and telegraphed Harry’s movements are, even half distracted they have the power to overwhelm him. Fully concentrating on just that…he doesn’t stand a chance.

Eggsy takes a breath that feels like breaking the surface, a shocking relief even as his heart beats faster. Harry pulls back from his neck to kiss along his jaw to his lips, where they fall back into one another. They stay together like this, hands roaming bodies and feeling out each other with touch.

With a shift of hip and parted leg their cocks touch and Eggsy arches into it, feeling hot and drunk as Harry lets out a groan.  Eggsy drags his hands along Harry’s back, feeling the muscle move below skin and basking in the heat he radiates. When Eggsy opens his eyes, all he can see is Harry’s head and it doesn’t stop the mark from being there, form Harry being destined for someone else, but not seeing it makes it easier to ignore. Makes it easier to fall into the sensual rhythm of their bodies.

Then Harry’s hand falls to his scar mark. Eggsy can’t stop himself from tensing, freezing up all over. Harry would be a terrible spy if he hadn’t noticed. Harry looks intently at Eggsy, his fingers tracing the edges of the mark, gentle caresses against an ugly truth.

Harry pulls back and Eggsy can’t do anything for it, feeling lightheaded in the worst way even as his cock stays hard, heart yearning for softness and love against his mark even as his mind balks at it. Instead of moving on, asking questions—or hell, _leaving_ —as Eggsy half expects, Harry moves down his body, sucking kisses as he goes.

When he’s level with the mark, Harry leans down and sets his mouth to it, licking across the scarred surface. Eggsy bucks without thought, breathe coming fast and dick brushing against Harry’s cheek when he jerks.

Harry looks up at him, and Eggsy can’t help crying out as he’s nipped on tissue that should be nerve deadened. It never felt like this before, that’s for sure. His hands find Harry’s hair and he doesn’t know if he wants to direct Harry over to his prick or keep him where he is, against his soul mark. He does neither; when his hands catch in the bandage on Harry’s forehead, he pulls back, fists his hands in the sheets and allows Harry to do what he will.

Harry pulls back, lets his lips hover over the mark and Eggsy feels dizzy with lust. Harry blows gently on the spit wet skin. Eggsy head falls back against the bed as the sensation shoots through his spine. A spirt of pre-come dribbles down his cock.

“Sensitive,” Harry says, giving it another lick that has Eggsy shiver, each touch feels _more_ , “I’ll remember that.”

Eggsy nods dumbly, urging Harry back up his body with hands along his shoulders, feeling him settle over him like he belonged, “Harry…” he gets out breathless, and then they’re kissing again and Eggsy doesn’t have breath to spare.

Eggsy tilts his hips up, wraps his legs around Harry’s waist, encouraging Harry’s groin where he wants it, rocking into the feeling of pressure against his ass—so good but not what he’s craving.

“Are you sure darling?” Harry pulls away to ask and Eggsy doesn’t think he’s ever heard a more useless question. He nods as he chases Harry’s lips.

“Alright love, then let me go.”

Eggsy knows he must, knows that they need lube and a condom, but it’s hard to make his limbs unlock. He manages it after a moment and Harry goes to the adjoining bathroom. Eggsy takes the unwelcome reprieve as a chance to at least get some control over his breathing, and to move up the bed, more centered in the large space.

Eggsy touched his mark almost reverently for a moment while Harry was still safely out of the room. He never knew… never knew that something good could come from his scar mark, that he could derive pleasure from it.

Harry came back in the room and Eggsy snatched his hand away before he can be spotted. It wouldn’t do for Harry to ask any questions now of all times.

Eggsy’s eyes are stopped by Harry’s mark again. Caught as Harry makes his way over and for a vicious moment Eggsy wants those daisies to wither and fade away, leave Harry unmarked so Eggsy can brand him himself, selfish and deplorable.

The realization comes suddenly, Eggsy won’t be able to have Harry, not as he wants—with a reminding ache in him for days—if he has to look at the mark. He’d be half here, half tormented by his own mind, watching Harry meet his destined soulmate in some distant hazy future.

Before Harry can fully settle himself on top of Eggsy, he flips, setting on his knees and letting his back slope to his elbows, backside in the air and waiting. Harry takes a moment, and Eggsy wonders if he noticed somehow, realized Eggsy’s thoughts.

Harry’s hand slides down his spine and the reality of his pause falls into sharp relief.

His tattoo—the one he got on his sixteenth birthday to hide the truth from his mom. The one everyone assumes is his soul mark when they see it. Of course Harry thinks the same, Eggsy hasn’t told him any different.

Harry doesn’t comment, doesn’t say the truth that must be blaring in his mind— _this isn’t for me_. Of course it’s not! Some sympathetic tattoo artist came up with it so Eggsy could feel normal, could ignore the scar mark. It’s not for anyone.

Harry’s fingers trace the lines and colors in slow, wistful movements. Eggsy waits for it, on high alert and feeling so vulnerable, for Harry to say something. It can’t be long they stay like that, but for Eggsy it feels like an eternity and _Harry still isn’t saying anything._

And then it hits— _hard_. Harry—he, he never thought—he never thought they were soulmates. Not even as he said it downstairs did he truly believe it. He never asked to see Eggsy’s mark to confirm or see or anything and Eggsy—so sure they aren’t soul mates—hadn’t thought it weird, had hardly noticed.

This whole time. Harry knew they weren’t soul mates and still led Eggsy on. He can’t even feel bad, can he? He did the exact same thing, the exact damn thing to Harry. Harry must think him desperate, and Eggsy can’t even deny it.

“Please…” Eggsy gets out, keeps his head to the sheets because he can feel the hot swell of tears come to his eyes. His throat clicks. Harry’s silent for another long moment. And then his lips fall gently on his back, where Eggsy thinks the black line bursts into color.

It’s almost enough to break him. His erections flagged and his throat feels tight, but he won’t—he won’t let Harry walk away from him, god please not now. Even if it’s pity, just once, just once he wants to pretend that Harry loves him, that Harry was made for him. That Harry’s heart yearns for him like Eggsy’s does.

Harry opens the bottle of lube, squirts some out and then Eggsy feels his hand, slick and slightly cold, against his crack. Harry’s dry hand pulls his cheeks apart and then a forefinger is brushing over his hole. Eggsy feel’s sick even as he backs into the touch, too knotted up and tense to enjoy it.

Harry kisses his back again, wherever he can reach, and his dry hand rubs his hip, catching the scar mark every few passes. That light touch is enough to settle Eggsy, let him sigh into it as one finger enters him in shallow thrusts. Harry’s hands are rough, but so gentle where they touch him and soon Eggsy’s ready for another, asking for more with the shift of his hips and a groan.

Harry lets out a breath as if he’d been holding it, nervous or unsure, but Eggsy can’t let himself be distracted. He focuses on Harry’s hands, on his fingers twisting and stretching with the utmost care and the feel of warmth on his scar mark. The heat that’d left him builds again and the room gains it’s warm, close atmosphere that leaves Eggsy with little to do but bask in it.

When Harry adds a third finger, Eggsy’s breathe catches and he bares down. Harry stills until Eggsy nods, and then he’s back to work, stretching and crooking his fingers, shifting in and out. He laves kisses down Eggsy back, slow and wet, making heat settle at the base of his spine. The first brush against his prostate Eggsy gives a shout and can feel Harry’s smile against his skin.

“Enough—Harry,” Eggsy gets out through ragged breathes, “Harry, I’m ready.”

Harry hesitates for a moment, but then the fingers leave him and Eggsy can hear the crinkle of foil. He doesn’t dare turn around, instead tries to calm himself so he doesn’t come the moment Harry starts to push into him.

And then there are hands on his hips, a finger brushing almost absently against his scar mark, and Harry starts to push in. it’s agonizingly slow, but necessary—Harry’s wider than his three fingers, and although the stretching was thorough, it’s still a tight fit.

Eggsy gives short pants that feel all but shoved out of him, air giving way to fullness. When Harry’s pressed fully in him, he drapes himself along Eggsy’s back, holding himself up around Eggsy with his arms. It’s like being enveloped, and with each little kiss Harry presses to his neck and shoulder, it feels like love.

“Beautiful, you’re so beautiful, Eggsy, Darling, you feel so good around me,” Harry presses the words to his skin and Eggsy can stop himself from moving around Harry inside him at the praise. Harry shivers and Eggsy can feel every bit of it.

Harry pulls out and slides back in in long, slow strokes. It’s the same pace as earlier, languid and sensual, indulging in the physicality and dripping with feeling. The small _ah, ah, ah_ s are punched out of him every time Harry’s thrust back in. The stretch is wonderful and the speed of Harry’s thrusts make sure Eggsy feels every bit of it.

Harry shifts slightly, and Eggsy tilts his hips and he sees stars when Harry pushes in, angled perfectly against his prostate. He must keen or cry out, because Harry’s breath is harsh in his ear and he picks up the pace the slightest of amounts.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” Harry’s voice falls into the haze that’s becoming of his awareness and he clenches around him as his legs start to shake and Harry hisses, “You could end me, darling boy, as easy as breathing.”

Eggsy whines, pushes back into Harry’s thrusts, Harry’s words pushing Eggsy closer. Harry nips his neck and Eggsy jolts back in surprise, making Harry hit his prostate with more force than before and they both groan as Eggsy sinks to his chest, arms useless for holding him up, legs sliding father to the sides.

Harry slides a strong arm around his hips, keeping Eggsy at the right angle and Eggsy’s cock brushes Harry’s arm at every thrust.

He’s babbling, he realizes—an unending stream of _please_ and _Harry_ and _more_ and _yes_ and _god_ , intermixed with sounds of pleasure. It only speeds up, rising in pitch as Harry speeds up, restraint failing. He wishes he could make himself quiet to better hear the grunts and moans falling from Harry, but he can’t, not as lost in sensation as he is.

And then the arm around his waist shifts, places pressure against his cock and scar mark in one and Eggsy’s gone, overwhelmed in an instant. Harry’s groan at Eggsy’s body pulsing around him makes Eggsy shiver, want to join Harry again in the promise of pleasure.

When Harry comes, he stills in Eggsy, drops swears as he does declarations of adoration and Eggsy doesn’t know which he likes better. They stay there for a moment, Eggsy almost useless in his state and Harry working to regain something like composure. He slips out of Eggsy as gently as he can but Eggsy still gives a sharp breath in, especially as the hand holding him up leaves him and Eggsy body flattens against the mess of his own making.

Eggsy can just see Harry tie off the condom and toss it in the trash before going to the bathroom, murmuring gently that he’ll get them cleaned up.  Eggsy doesn’t want to move, not now, not ever. Not even as his come starts to cool under him. But he knows he must, the afterglow was never going to be long, not when they came together both with secrets on their chests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the story's finally earned it's rating--i always feel foolish when things get to this part but I hope you enjoyed this chapter and as always, comments are loved, adored, cherished...


	13. Heal

It was amazing, the whole time. Even as it felt like a punch to the gut to see Eggsy’s beautiful mark and not even feel the smallest hint of knowing, it still hurts in the sweetest of ways. Eggsy’s every sound, every shift and move ignites Harry, makes each moment better than the last. He could die from this, from something this perfect.

When they move together it’s….it’s ineffable.

But there’s always a crash after a high this good. Harry feels the shift the moment they finish—he’d be long dead if he weren’t able to notice the smallest of shifts in the air. Eggsy’s been a coiled knot even as they came together, reaching a crux when Harry was shown Eggsy’s back. He knows—Eggsy knows the mark isn’t for Harry, and still he…

But it doesn’t matter, Eggsy said they’d be good together. He said ‘fuck fate’ and was all for making the _choice_ to be together. Harry clings to that as he gets up to get a washcloth. He can feel Eggsy withdrawing like a physical thing in the air. But he doesn’t want to have to beg. He would do a lot more than beg to keep Eggsy by his side, but Eggsy certainly wouldn’t appreciate the display.

So he goes into the washroom and hopes that Eggsy will be there when he comes out.

* * *

 

When Harry comes back in after cleaning himself off with a damp washcloth for Eggsy, Eggsy’s gotten himself in his pants and slacks through some miracle, and is sitting on the bed away from the wet patch, ignoring the pleasant ache and the way his limbs still want to be jelly.

“You knew.”

It’s not a question, and the way Harry looks caught between ashamed and sad answers it all.

“Once I saw your mark,” Harry makes a vague motion to Eggsy’s back, “Really? I knew before, since I saw you and Belvidere in the gym and caught a glimpse. I thought that maybe, just maybe, when I saw it again it’d mean something to me.”

Eggsy gives a dry laugh and feels the euphoria leave in choppy bouts. He knew, knew since half way through the sex, but that Harry doesn’t even deny it… Eggsy’s hand going up to press on his forehead, to ground him as the world shifts once again, “of course you knew, how could we ever—how could _I_ ever…” he trails off, looking at nothing.

“Eggsy,” Harry leans closer, but carefully doesn’t touch, Eggsy glad for that. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling, not really, and being with Harry’s never made him think clearly.

Harry continues; “You are my soulmate—”

“Don’t”

“— _you are_. And, and I know yours must still be out there somewhere but you are mine. I know it in my heart.”

“Don’t _do_ this Harry.” Eggsy’s voice shakes.

“When I look at this I’ll always know it’s yours.” He places a hand gently over his beautiful mark.

Eggsy feels himself vibrate with a mix of anger and shame and the sour taste of hope, “Harry _look_.” He leans back enough that his scar mark isn’t blocked at all by his body or the line of this slacks, intent on telling Harry. But—he can’t, even now, after everything and knowing that this is the last he’ll ever have of Harry like this, warm and naked, he can’t tell Harry his soul is a scar.

He continues, softer, throat dry as he betrays them both again, “look Harry. Your mark, that’s for someone—someone who’s not me, okay, someone who’s worth the way you look at me.”

Harry’s voice rises, gets the argumentative, defensive tilt that sets Eggsy on edge, “But Eggsy—”

“No Harry!” Eggsy shouts over him before taking a shuttering breath masquerading as steadying, “You were right. This was a bad idea.”

Harry looks like he’s been slapped, “Then why’d you do it then? Why’d you let me hope that we could—we could be something good? I was content to stay away but you—”

“I,” Eggsy breathes deep, tries to untangle his thoughts, tries to tell the truth as best he can figure it, “…I was trying to convince myself, I think. Harry, when I look at you, I love you so much it _hurts_ , really and truly, right here,” he places his hand on his chest like an overdramatic sod, “and—and you’ve got someone else out there who _you’ll_ love like that, and they’ll be worth it.”

Harry pleads “Eggsy—Eggsy it’s _you_ , it’s always been you.”

It’s enough to break him, but Eggsy shakes his head, denying Harry fervent nodding.

“It is,” Harry grabs Eggsy hands, pulls them to his chest, “it is, I swear, there’s no way it couldn’t be, not when you make my life wholly worth living.”

“Harry, please don’t make this harder.” He feels his voice crack

His face fills with angry. And instead of terrifying him and shaming him like it did before Kentucky, it just makes Eggsy sad.

“It should be hard! You were right, Eggsy, my darling, we can be good together—we _are_ good and this” he presses Eggsy’s hands harder against his mark, “this is for you. Even if it wasn’t meant for you, it is now. Just like my heart.” And then, soft as anything, “and I know your mark doesn’t mean anything to me, but—”

He can’t—can’t hold back the truth, even as he flushes with embarrassment, with shame, he bursts with the truth, “that’s not my mark.”

Silence. It’s long and Eggsy can’t look at him. He wants to cry.

 “What?”

_It’s okay, it’s fine, this’ll stop him and he’ll know, he’ll know it’s not me and that he’s better off waiting_. Even so, even knowing that, he can’t say it. So instead he leans back from how he’d hunched over during their argument and points to it with a shaking finger. The scar on his hip with his silvery skin and spider-webbing sides, the elongated spike off it to the left that makes it seem as though he barely escaped death. If only he could escape himself.

“This is my mark.”

Harry looks him in the eye for a long moment before turning his eyes to the scar, seeing it in an entirely different light than during their tryst. Eggsy has to look away, eyes closed tight to fight the burning. Harry knows now. He saw it before, but now he _knows_.

Gentle fingers touch the raised silvery skin and Eggsy—not expecting it at all, never having anyone touch it while _knowing_ with _reverence_ of all things—he startles so bad he falls back, falls to the floor and scrambles up, Harry still with his hand extended, and Eggsy’s eyes jump between his hand and his face, mouth open in a slight ‘oh’ of surprise. And he feels so shaken and scared and not prepared for it, never prepared for this kind of rejection, that he runs, runs out the room and out the house and runs runs runs until his lungs burn and his knees hurt for each pounding step. He didn’t outrun it, the pain.

* * *

Harry’s being avoided. It’s easy to tell, especially when he can see the boy looking at him, stealing little glances filled with feeling before he hides himself away around a corner or in a conversation. It hurts, he can’t pretend it doesn’t. And Harry can’t pretend to know what goes through Eggsy’s head, what it was that terrified Eggsy after they made love that wasn’t there before when Eggsy pushed and pushed and pushed until Harry gave in and experienced unadulterated happiness, if only for a short time.

Now it just hurts. He wants to press the issue, corner Eggsy in some forgotten hall and spit Eggsy’s own words back at him _we could be good together, we could be so, so good_. But he’s old, and he hurts, and seeing Eggsy around is enough (it has to be). Harry doesn’t want to push him away, to make him leave for good.

He’s taken to touching his mark again. Unthinkingly, just tapping it, reminding himself it’s there and that there’s a heart (a heart that’s been caught by Eggsy—who yearns for it fiercely but won’t take it) underneath.

Eggsy catches him doing it, once. And Harry catches his eye, hand stilling there on his chest, eyes fixed of those beautifully expressive ones. But then Eggsy (his Eggsy, Eggsy’s always been his), wretches away and it feels like dying all over again

* * *

Eggsy didn’t think it would be easy to avoid Harry—they work together and they’re both spies, if Harry really wanted to make Eggsy’s life difficult he could do it easier than breathing—but even when he’s not in Harry’s presence, Harry’s always still there.

Eggsy thought he was preoccupied by Harry _before_ …now that he’s slept with the man, it’s almost impossible to get him out of his head. The thing that kills though, the thing that tells Eggsy that he’s doomed forever, is that what he missed more than their one time together is just _being_ with Harry.

Harry—he’s amazing, no two ways about it. and this beautiful, amazing man thinks he’s in love with _him_. It makes his scarmark throb—that Harry could still lie to him, still profess love even when he _knows_. Eggsy wants to go to Harry, wants to be enveloped in a hug and just cry—about his mark, about his life, about how Harry isn’t his, about everything—until he has no tears left. But he can’t. It isn’t his place. Eggsy Unwin; still always trying to pass as another class, another type, another person.

But Harry knows. And even if Harry thinks he loves him now, Eggsy’s not going to stick around when Harry realizes the truth. He’s not going to watch Harry fall out of love with him, stoically stay with him because of some kind of gentlemanly self-expectation. Better to rip it off quick like a plaster than let it linger, always tugging, always hurting.

* * *

 

Emilia looks closely as the gauze comes off slowly from around Harry’s head. She’s been changing his dressings every day, making sure there’s no infection and doing her best to further the healing. Every day she’d undress it in the same fashion, face scrunched in concentration and give little tuts, before putting on salve and redressing it. Today though, today she takes it off with the same expression, same focus, but instead of tutting she smiles.

“We might just be done with this,” Emilia looks at him—his face for once, not his wound—and seems pleased.

“How bad is it then?” Harry asks.

Emilia tuts again, “none of that rubbish, what do you think I’ve been doing all this time, Galahad? Watching it deform your face?” she puffs out an annoyed breath, “it doesn’t look bad at all. There’s a scar, mind you, but it’d be a hell of a lot different if you didn’t have a knowledgeable woman like myself as your begrudging caretaker. And just for that, next time you get yourself banged up, I’m sending the interns on you.” She holds out a mirror for him and Harry can’t help but smile at her antics. Can’t help feeling a little guilty that he goads her on.

And then he looks at himself.

There, right above his left eye, partially blocked by his falling hair, is Eggsy’s soul mark.

He can’t be blamed for running out of there without a word and scaring Emilia half to death.

* * *

“Eggsy!”

Eggsy whips around. At the other end of the corridor is Harry, chest heaving and looking mad as all get out. This is it, Eggsy thinks, this is when he tells me go, that I’m not a Kingsman any more.

Damn if I’ll make it easy for him.

Eggsy runs. He runs right out the mansion, past the few candidates left for Kay’s position, and onto the outdoor track. He goes to its furthest point from the mansion and runs into the woods beyond. His breath is loud and his footfalls louder, but not loud enough to mask the distinct sound of another pair of feet, another person following his same path.

He gets to a clearing where three different foot-worn paths start and hesitates for a second—a second too long. He’s being tackled, thrown to the ground with the wind knocked out of him and barely manages to not get a face full of dirt. They stay there for a moment, getting their breath back, and in the silence Eggsy feels dizzy and lost and please let me keep the house, we ain’t going back to the flat, we can’t—

“Eggsy…” Harry breaths, and Eggsy feels the warm air against his ear and neck and tenses so much everything feels tight and ready to snap. Harry’s silent and it’s eating Eggsy up, pushing him closer and closer to the edge.

“Just say it!” he burst, struggling a little against Harry’s weight, even if the feel and smell and warmth and _presence_ is a comfort.

Harry’s quiet for another long moment and it feels deliberate.

“Eggsy,” Harry takes his weight off of him, “turn over.”

He doesn’t want to. He wants to stay here, looking at the grass and pretending none of this is happening. Or better yet go back in time and stop himself from ruining the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

“Come now, Darling,” Harry presses dry lips to his neck, a soft thing that makes Eggsy ache, “please look at me.”

Eggsy has been beat more times than he’s care to count. He’s been threatened at knifepoint, at _gunpoint_. Jumped out of a plane and thought he didn’t have a ‘shoot, almost got run over by a train. Fought a woman with knives for legs and went against an array of guards who were not afraid to shoot to kill. Harry doing this, it’s worse than all of that combined.

Eggsy turns over, and it’s graceless and messy, which sums up his life nicely. Harry’s looking at him like he hung the moon and it makes him want to shove him away, demand he never look at Eggsy that way again, never lie like that again.

And then he sees the scar.

It’s been hidden under bandages for _weeks_ , healing slowly, but now it’s free, and finally seeing the proof of Harry’s fortune, of his brush with death—seeing that same mark he’s seen on himself—it, it changes something. What meant broken and scarred and hurt and ruined and dead means healed and survived and better and beautiful and _alive_.

He’s in awe. Eggsy reaches up to touch, to learn the starburst edges and the wisp tail, he doesn’t need to, he’s been tracing every curve since he was fifteen, as familiar as the medal gifted to him by this man, this man who’s scar is burned on Eggsy’s body because the world didn’t get it wrong, fate or whatever, it didn’t get it wrong, it knew, knew that this would be the most important thing. All this time he hasn’t been cursed with a harbinger of death or pain, but a symbol of life, of the man he loves living despite everything, of coming back to Eggsy. And _that_ is the most important thing.

“Oh.” Is all he gets out, and he can feel tears leaking from the corner of his eyes, but it doesn’t matter because Harry’s looking at him with the biggest smile and his eyes are wet too, shining and crinkled at the edges.

“You’re mine,” Eggsy gets out around the lump in his throat and he has to blink quick to stop Harry from swimming in his vision, “you’re mine.”

Harry laughs, delighted, eyes bright and Eggsy wants to do nothing more than kiss him. And he can, there is nothing on this earth stopping him. Eggsy surges up with enough force and unexpectedness to send Harry toppling over. Eggsy follows him, ends up sat on Harry’s chest, leaning over him to kiss him hard.

The kisses they exchanged before were slow, languid and steady. Now it’s messy and hard and full of every ounce of unrestrained joy that Eggsy feels. When he breaks away Harry leans to follow, eyes intent on Eggsy’s spit slicked and reddened mouth, but Eggsy stops him with a hand on his chest and Harry complies.

“You’re for me,” Eggsy babbles, hand drifting to where Harry’s mark is hidden under his clothes, and that really can’t be allowed to continue, not when Eggsy knows he’s allowed to covet, allowed to enjoy himself with Harry without guilt, “oh god,” Eggsy groans and shifts his hips. He’s hard. The idea of Harry and he hasn’t sunken in yet, not really, but every new moment where this continues to be his reality send him higher.

Harry’s breath hitches and his hands go to Eggsy’s hips, his right thumb unerringly finding Eggsy mark and pressing it, sending pleasure up Eggsy’s spine. Harry shifts Eggsy slightly in his lap and Eggsy can feel it, Harry rising against his ass.

Harry’s looking at his trousers, where they stretch against his cock and he can’t help smirking, even as he distracts himself but undoing Harry’s buttons. He wants to see Harry’s mark. Wants to see it and know it’s for him.

He tries to ruck up the undershirt, but it’s stuck between Harry’s back and the ground and Eggsy can’t bear to let him up, even to free the mark. Harry’s hands squeeze at his hips and Eggsy rocks down with a moan, head falling back and eyes threatening to shut.

Then a shiver runs through him and he levels Harry with a glare, “don’t distract me.”

Harry gives a breathy laugh, “wouldn’t dare.”

Eggsy goes back to the undershirt, twisting it to the side to show the mark through the armhole. It works, half way, showing part of the mark and Eggsy gives a growl before _ripping_ the shoulder.

“Eggsy!” Harry gives an almost scandalized shout.

“You’re not allowed to wear undershirts anymore.” Eggsy traces the mark, “or shirts.”

Whatever rebuttal Harry was gearing for gets lost in a groan when Eggsy leans down and traces the mark again with his tongue. He nips at the ribbon and caresses petals before straying to the left and taking Harry’s nipple into his mouth.

“Fuck,” Harry lets out and Eggsy smiles against his prize until there’s a hand in his hair and he’s being dragged up for a kiss that’s all rough edges and need. It makes Eggsy squirm and they both groan.

“God you’re gorgeous.” Eggsy gets out when they break for air, “I followed you around like a lovesick puppy since the start”—he reaches his hands in between them and fumbles with Harry’s belt—“and now you’re mine.”

“I should be saying that,” Harry quips, looking up at Eggsy with something akin to reverence, “You’re so perfect darling, I can scarcely imagine how you exist.”

Eggsy lets out a laugh with too much joy to be self-depreciating and goes for Harry’s buttons and zip.

“truly—” Harry’s breath hitches as Eggsy pulls his dick free, “so much fire in you, so much brass attitude, oh but when I said a kind word you’d open like a flower, sweet and shy as anything.”

Eggsy can’t stop from blushing, rolls his eyes to quell his embarrassment and goes for his own fastenings. It’s easy enough to shoo Harry’s hands to the side once he catches Eggsy’s plan, and Eggsy’s slipping off of him just enough to push his jeans and pants down past his hips, not willing or caring enough to completely take them off.

Harry reaches for him again, one hand going to his mark with teasing wisps of touch and the other settling on his prick.

Eggsy gives a long moan, bending over, closer, “don’t suppose you’ve got any lube?” Eggsy says half in jest. Harry’s face goes scarlet and Eggsy lets out a delighted laugh.

“In my right pocket.”

“You absolute deviant!” he teases, pulling out a packet and a condom, “was it Kingsman or the scouts that taught you to be so prepared?” he opens the packet, pours it on his fingers and reaches around himself.

“You cheeky tart,” Harry says, opening the packet of lube and putting it on his hand, grabbing the both of them and giving tight, long strokes.

It’s loud and it’s quick and it’s messy; it's them coming together with no guilt or secrets. There's no pacing or slowness, no waiting. Later they can do worshipful and slow-in a bed where Eggsy can properly appreciate all that Harry is and then fall asleep together and wake up together and do that every day for the rest of their lives. Now he just wants the joy of this moment, and Harry seems to be of the same mindset; his strokes get faster and Eggsy pushes into each with a gasp. Eggsy brings his lips to Harry's and they make an attempt at a kiss which quickly dissolves into just breathing the same air.

Harry twists his wrist on an upstroke and Eggsy's gone, coming with a long groan and full body shiver. Harry strokes him through it and then he's coming too, a flush on his cheeks and Eggsy peppering his face with kisses.

Eggsy settles more fully on Harry, breath coming too fast and a smile stuck on his face. He basks in the afterglow, something they both didn’t have much of last time. Harry kisses the closest part of Eggsy he can reach (his temple) and runs a warm hand through his hair. They’re absolute messes, lips kiss swollen and hair mussed, Harry's shirt is ripped and Eggsy can feel a flush across his skin—and come is drying between them now, on their clothes and on their skin, making the whole thing even worse, but Eggsy can’t get himself to move. This is everything. This is amazing. It’s on repeat in his head— _you’re mine, you’re mine, you’re mine._

Eggsy props himself up enough to look Harry in the face. The scar looks like it belongs there, a mark of defiant survival, and it makes Eggsy’s scar mark warm. Every time he sees Harry he’ll see the scar, he’ll see how they’re meant to be. Each time he'll get the same bubbling feeling of elation in his heart.

Eggsy can’t fight a smile now, “You’re mine.” He says it with something like awe.

Harry brings their lips together, kisses him deeply. When they part Eggsy’s breath is coming fast again and he wants nothing more than to do that at least once every day.

“My darling,” Harry says, “I’ve always been yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for getting to the end with me! I really do hope you enjoyed this--and if you did, please leave a comment,they really mean a ton.


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